No Man's Child
by Anoriath
Summary: What happens when you turn your back on fate, when the intellect of the mind overrides the intuition of the heart? When hope withers in deepest winter, is it an act of courage or cowardice to foreswear the word you gave in the spring?
1. Prologue

Prologue:

_A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the heights of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin. Many years of trial lie before you… You shall be betrothed to no man's child as yet._

LOTR: Appendix A

oOo

Some time ago, the chanting ceased, leaving only the chill wind whistling through the grass. Here among the barrows, the morning is bright. The sun rises above a hill scoured clean by the bitter winds that sweep down from the northern lands. Snow lies secreted beneath the eaves of the tall pines, revealed only when our passage turned aside low-hanging boughs heavy with green. Yet, even now the tips of the hawthorn swell with the promise of new growth. Soon the wind will turn and blow warmly from beyond the Havens, bringing with it the water of distant seas and the blessings of the Valar.

Dirt trickles from my fist and my fingers ache from the force with which I clasp the earth between them.

"Nienelen?"

A touch to my elbow turns me and I blink in the light at a face framed in silver-threaded hair. I stare at her.

I know her. Like me, she is a woman of the Dúnedain of the North. I have known her all my life. I know each tale told by the worn lines of her face and those of the women who stand in ranks beyond her. Today, I have become one of them. In the end, what tale will my features tell? How many men will I grieve? Is it my destiny, as it is theirs, to live the last of our lives alone, bereft of father, brother, husband, son, until we too lay down our weary bones beside them?

The wind sighs through the sere grass and burns my cheeks with its chill. I wept and did not know it.

Mutely, I look down upon my father's face against the dark, newly-turned earth. Yet still, I cannot see him. Those are not his beloved eyes, cheeks and jaw. 'Tis not his hair arrayed about his shoulders. I see naught of likeness to the man whose house I have kept since I grew past the days in which he taught me the weaving the buttercups of this very meadow and placed them upon his dark head.

"Daughter," says she gently, placing a hand upon my arm to urge the ritual on. Yet, she is not my mother. She that gave me birth died in the labor.

I am not her daughter, for I have no mother, nor, now, any father. For, from this day on, I am no man's child.

oOo


	2. Chapter 1

_'The road must be trod, but it will be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world.'_

FOTR: The Council of Elrond

oOo

It is said the Dúnadan, our lord Aragorn Arathorn's son, lies as close to death as one could and yet still breathe. They brought him home to the Angle, a long column of weary men, along with their dead.

What befell them, they would not say. Even now they speak little. Their tall frames cloaked in the grays of the Rangers of the North, they stride without word beside their sisters, mothers, and wives as we make that slow journey back to our homes. Behind us, the winds bend the heads of the grasses to the ground above our dead. We left them there to the weeping grasses and return to walk paths a little more silent and sit at hearths just a little colder. But, we do not press the Rangers to speak. Oft our folk wander and oft they fail of their return. Any word of their fall seems but a poor exchange.

Twilight falls upon the Third Age, though we knew it not. We knew only this; ever has The Deceiver borne us a long, patient contempt. Once Arnor fell, broken upon the great wave from the north, we ever slide slowly to the depths of our decline. We are a dwindled people, skulking in the hills, wandering in the wastes, and awaiting the day our Enemy shall deign to sweep us aside.

He will not forget us, the Dúnedain of the North, but neither will the end come swiftly. He will hoard his hate and wear away at all dignity until we break apart as a frail ship upon the waves. Once, we put our trust in the thick walls and tall towers of our cities, but, despite the promise of their grandeur, they failed us. Now we cling to Isildur's heirs as would a sailor to a beacon when long upon stormy waters and far from home. They are the walls of our harbor. Tired stone upon stone are the lives of our heirs of kings, but never have they failed us. Had we not the hope of the house of Elendil to strengthen us, we would have long sunk to the dark and bitter depths beneath the flood.

Nettles catch upon the hem of my skirt and I stop to pull the thorns from between its threads. The sun beats down upon my head until I am dull with warmth and lack of sleep. I have wound about my hair and neck a cowl of thin black wool. It is a comfort to me, for its dark folds confound the bitter touch of the wind and the mourning eyes of the folk of the North as they pass, brushing past me silently, lost each in his own memory of grief and burdens to bear. Soon the line of men and women will disappear beneath the eaves of the pines and I will have no more thorns to brush from my skirts. The cool, dark air of the forest breathes upon me as I stand there and, for reasons I know not, I shiver at its touch. Loathe am I to enter, yet I have naught to hold me here.

I turn for one last look upon the bald head of the summit. The mounds of raw earth stark against the hillside are hidden from my sight. Instead, the morning light paints the grasses silver along their edges as the wind sends ripples through last summer's growth. Though I squint against wind and sun, there is naught to see of what I left behind.

At a prickle along my neck, I know I am being watched. The last of my lord's Rangers looks upon me. He is tall, as are all those that descend from Westernesse, but with a height near unmatched here in the North. It is Halbarad, friend to my father and kinsman to our lord, and he holds aside the thin whip of a branch so I might follow him. The wind blows against my back, pressing my skirts onto my legs and lifting tendrils of his dark hair from his face. But he remains unmoved under its force and watches me steadily. I am being summoned.

It is dark beneath the boughs of the forest where the needles lay in a thick carpet along the path. As our people make their way, the sharp bite of resin and melting snow rises from beneath their feet. The sound of their passage soaks into the soft bed beneath the pines and I can no longer hear their footfalls for the soughing of the wind through the trees. I see no end to the shadowed tunnel, a journey forever in the dark without cease, a mere plodding of one step in front of the other with no purpose. It seems my feet would rather grow roots here on the edge of the wood.

I turn away so I cannot see the Ranger if he should raise his arm and usher me on should I fail to move. _Ai!_ What is it I wish? Shall I lie myself down beside that wound at the crest of the hill? Bury myself in the broken turf and refuse to move? Wait until my fingers curl their way into the ground and the wind has scoured my body clean of life as it has the grasses?

Halbarad awaits, silent, a tall pillar guarding the path, his eyes bright as I come near.

For a brief moment as I draw nigh, it seems Halbarad gazes at me intently and words crowd behind his eyes. But when I stoop to walk below his upraised arm, his look softens and he nods. Perhaps he has seen the questions in my own eyes.

'_What of your kin, Halbarad, Ranger of the North? What fate has befallen the Lord of the Dúnedain, the last of his line?'_

He will not say, but, instead, lets fall the branch behind us. We plunge into darkness and his firm footfalls follow upon the path I now tread.

oOo

"Nienelen?" a voice warbles from the door.

I wrench my head up from my knees to find my mother's elder aunt with a careful pile of cloth folded between her claw-like fingers. I make to rise from the bed to rush to her, but she shakes her head. She is frail and has been ill of late. I fear what she carries will strain joints she will need strong to bear the burden of a journey across the Wild, but she shuffles across the floor with a spryness to her step that ever surprises me. Our hands touch as I lift the pile from her arms and I marvel anew at their softness, thin silk over hollow bones.

"That is the last of it, I would think," says she, "unless you know of aught else."

"My thanks to you, Aunt." I put the clothes aside, my fingers lingering upon the fibers on top. I know the sheep that gave of their wool for that cloak and the pattern of their weaving that came from the journals bearing the hand of my mother and her mother's before her. Lined with a soft grey fur, it is my father's winter cloak.

"It will last another's wearing, will it not?" she asks and sinks to the bed beside me, leaning hard on my shoulder to ease herself down.

"Tutt!" she says when I turn, for she has caught sight of my face. I doubt not my eyes and nose are swollen and my face and neck blotched with red. Her nails drag at the soft nap of the cloth I wear as she rubs at my back. "Do not fret. I shan't wonder if your dear _atar__1_ isn't happiest in the arms of your long gone mother. A sweet woman, she was, and they had so few years together."

I sigh and lay my head upon her shoulder, gently there so I can feel the feeble beating of her heart. She pats at my cheek. Her touch lights upon me as a bird's wing.

"How do you bear it?"

I turn to her, for I know my aunt's years have seen the loss of many she loved. My mother's kin were long bereft of home after the Great Floods destroyed the city of Tharbad. Many years they wandered the Wild unprotected until my lord discovered their plight and took pity upon them. He then sent his Rangers to settle them in lands that knew more of peace, and so they found the hill-country of the Blue Mountains, all but one. She it was my mother who followed one of my lord's men to the Angle, forsaking the family she ne'er saw again.

"_Joys life will give thee, if thee let it, my pet, but not for long and not forever," _my aunt croons to me in the language of the elves._ "Naught is given that might not next be taken. But even the Shadow will not last, and, one day, those we love will surround us once again. When thou art called home, my pet, may those thee love surround thee, if not upon Arda's soil, then beyond the Circles of the World."_

With this, I must smile. My aunt reserves the high tongue for those words she wishes to have most effect. Oft were its liquid tones used to scold me as a child. I know best its language of rebuke. Even now, when I am well beyond childhood, she would chide me with it. She pats my head as it lies on her shoulder, where once she took all of my young body in her arms and soothed away nursery frights.

"I cannot bear to think what he suffered," I say, my voice thick.

"Now, pet," says she, and pushes me gently from her shoulder, "think of it not. Your father died doing what he believed best. To him the price was well worth what it bought. Do not doubt him."

"And you and I are left to make our way as we see best," she goes on and lays a hand on my shoulder. With a huff of breath at the effort, she pushes herself to standing.

"_Ai, me!" _she sighs as she straightens. "There now, that's a good chick." She pats me upon the shoulder, for I have turned a wan smile upon her, knowing this is what she would wish.

"Aye."

She peers down at me with crow–like eyes that twinkle with their dark light. "All will be well, my pet. But I would see you settled with family about you first, before I quit this world to follow your dear mother."

She strokes a stiff finger upon my cheek and I laugh and shake my head for what seems the first time in an age. I know what next shall come from her mouth.

With a fond huff, she demands, "And why shall you not marry yourself some young man who will take you away from your family and settle the King knows where? Is not that what my dear sister's daughter did?"

With that I rise from the bed. Aye, there is much to be done and now is the time for the doing.

"Young man!" say I. "I am afraid their eyesight must first be dimmed with either your years or your affections." I plant a kiss atop my aunt's crown of silver.

"Tutt!" she scolds and swats at me. "All men are young, whether with the bloom of youth or the foolishness of old age."

I bend aside and fuss with my father's gear, piling knife and belt atop the cloak, more to hide the smile that spreads across my face than to gather it up.

"Does this include the Elder Maurus?" I ask in a mild voice and a snort comes from across the room in answer.

"Impertinent girl!" she mutters and, either to forebear from further reproof or to avoid further teasing, shuffles out the door.

oOo

1 Atar: "father" (Quenya as spoken by the Faithful in Numenor)


	3. Chapter 2

_It all comes of those newcomers and gangrels that began coming up the Greenway last year, as you may remember; but more came later. Some were just poor bodies running away from trouble; but most were bad men, full o' thievery and mischief. _

ROTK: Homeward Bound

oOo

The basket is heavy, but not overly so. Its soft reeds creak against my hip where I clutch it as I walk. My steps are slow beneath the burden of the basket and nights unslept. I wind my way down the paths from one home to the next, passing house, pasture, field, and shed as I make my way to the center of life at the Angle.

It seems all of the folk of the Dúnedain are out of doors. As I pass, the voices of men harsh upon the morning air call to oxen pulling the plows. Dark is the earth they turn upon the fields. The women spread damp sheets and clothing upon the bushes to dry and arise from the soil to straighten their backs from the planting of the gardens in their tofts. Their children fetch and carry, and shepherd the young ones from harm for them, their young voices sounding high and bright upon the air. Men lounge about the farrier's just apart from the stink of metal and burning hooves as his hammer rings out across the path. Their faces are solemn and their eyes are dark. They speak little, but nod a courteous greeting. I pass and the scrambling of feet, both of horse and man comes from the back of his shed.

"Ha, there," I hear, and men cluster about a yearling at his first shoeing. With hand and soft voices they settle him again and I hear them no more.

I wear the black of mourning, the fine folds of the cloth shivering against my cheek in the morning breeze. It turns few heads either as I walk or in the square when I arrive, bent as the folk are over the stalls and carts of goods, and accustomed as they are to the sight. As I come upon them, their voices rise in a muted babble that seems as a stream rushing over a stony bed. The people of the Angle have arisen early, for this is , the day of the market. No matter the empty chairs about the hearth, it is spring, the day is fair, and the Angle must endure.

The market is much changed from then, but clearly, still, can I see it in my mind's eye. Scores upon scores of feet have packed the earth to a hard floor and about the square are crowded stalls, tables, carts and blankets, all upon which goods are spread. Come the fall, the square shall fly with dust from the dried earth and the heavy hand of the sun will press the folk to find shade where aught they may. But, today, the air is cool and the sun a blessing. The square is full of people as they awaken from the winter and share of the first fruits of their labors.

This early in the spring our men-folk trade tender beans and bundles of greens from the rough carts they had pulled themselves into the square. Their wives trade tender shoots of cress pulled from the river to please the palate, and thin bark stripped from the willow to ease pain and fevers.

A table has been set before the tall mound of stone and there, with their children lagging behind them or running about their knees, the men and women of the Dúnedain wait for their breads to emerge from the ovens. Low and grave their voices come to me. They speak with heads inclined and I hear words of barter, but, as oft, I hear words of fear mingled therein.

Not only do goods cross hands at the market, but news of the Angle is traded for that of the wider lands about us. We are a far spread people and the lines that connect us run thin across the Wild. For want of firmer tidings, rumor can run through the market faster than the fabled steeds of the Horse Lords. Today, I hear words of hope foresworn.

Some say the Dúnadan yet lives and lies in the house of his kin. To others, his spirit has already fled these shores. All speak of our lord, but none dare say the words they fear the most, that he is the last of his line. Yet it this very thought and none other that hangs behind every thinly pressed lip, averted eye, and furrowed brow. The people wait.

I pass 's stall where she is in the midst of haggling over a bundle of fleece but newly sheared from the animal. She spares me a smile in greeting over the shoulder of her customer.

"Nienelen!" she calls and the young woman before her turns to see to whom she calls. I know her, but recently married to a Ranger as young as she. Her gaze lingers upon the black of my shawl before she turns away without greeting. I cannot bring myself to blame her for the slight.

"Shall you bring the dye you promised before you go?" asks. A true worker of fiber, her fingers never leave off caressing the wool.

"Aye," I call to her. "You do not forget the price we set?"

I am anxious, for she promised to pay me in coin, a rare thing. I would not ask, but I have great need for it as never before. The dwarves of the Blue Mountain trade in many things, but not often in such goods such as I possess.

"I can pay it, never fear." She waves me on before returning to her dickering.

I pass and the butcher's knife comes down upon a joint of meat with a dull whack, sending the hares and fresh-caught fish swaying upon their pole above his head where they hang. The butcher's face is round and red as always, hale of arm and heart, though he be greatly lame of leg from a wound taken long ago in our lord's service. He raises a bloody knife to wipe his forehead upon his sleeve. As I pass, he gives me a slight wink and nods at the rolls of sausages upon his cart. He knows they are my favorite, fat and freshly made, stuffed with meat, dried apple and sage, but today I shake my head. I have other errands to run.

He nods, ending our wordless speech, and returns to his work as I proceed past piles of furs upon ragged mats of reed and then tumbled forms of baskets that hide the young girl who sits behind them and watches her aunt twine reeds about naked ribs. I know them not, but the worn cloth of what they wear and the haggard look of days and nights spent in fear mark them for our wandering folk newly fled to the Angle.

Fain I would catch their eye as I pass, but, though I nod, they say naught nor return my gaze. To their eye, I am but one more stranger in a stranger's home. Bereft they seem, and, though my heart ache for it, I can do little but walk past.

The door I seek opens upon shaded rooms and I am soon there. Chickens cluck their complaint in their pens in the yard and hide the sounds that come from within. So, it is with alarm that I stop and whirl about, leaving the Elder to his company in his hall. Halbarad is within and, in the brief glimpse I had of them, has risen to take his leave, his dark head tall above the cap of the old man whose home this is.

I remove myself beneath the low-hanging thatch, my lip pinched between my teeth, and debate what to do. Oft his yard is lined with petitioners, each leaning upon the old man's wall, and it is indeed odd to find myself alone here today. I am torn. I have no desire to overhear their discussion, yet I have nowhere else to be, and as worn as I am and as much as I must yet do this day, I wish not to be forced to wander about while I wait.

The voice of the Elder comes from the open doorway. It is flat with the toneless quality of the near deaf.

"Aye," says he, "our roots may dig deep, but our branches fail of the skies. Ah! But, you know this."

Wood scrapes against the floor and I lean against the Elder's home, eyelids weighted by the sun. It seems the interview is soon to close and they speak naught of consequence. I have heard this very cant from the Elder afore, many a time. It comes at the end of his litany of worries and I have but to wait a little. I close my eyes and rest against the wall and, in a moment, his voice and the cackling of the hens are far removed from the half-formed thoughts that swirl in my head.

I know Halbarad but little, for all my father called him friend. Their companionship was told in the silence of men who tread too far upon dark paths. Only once did my father invite Halbarad to our home. Many years it seems now since the tall, quiet man stooped his head to enter our door. He partook of the food I offered, spoke of the small things of the Angle with my father, and answered my questions of the beauties of the Wild over which he had ranged. How his eyes had glowed with pleasure at the telling!

Even in the heaviness that is my drowse I smile, recalling the care with which we had prepared the meal and my aunt's whisperings of matches made upon the shared brother-blood of Rangers. Perhaps that had been my father's intent, but it had come to naught. Though he might ever after greet me with sober courtesy when ere we met, for all the pleasure of his visit Halbarad came ne'er again.

"Best she not have ties to family of her own, mark you!" comes the Elder's voice, faint as though from a great distance. I hear it not.

"Enough will be needed of the lady to make up for the lack. But, they are all from good families, descended from the Kings, and will do at a pinch. They will do, they will all do, will they not, my boy?"

Halbarad's reply is too deeply voiced for me to hear, but their feet scuff against the floor.

"What was that? Hmm, well, aye, true, only one is needed. And would that we had been heeded long ago. It is long overdue, my good Halbarad. Choose well."

_"I thank thee, Master Maurus,_" comes Halbarad's clear farewell. He has raised his voice the better for the Elder to hear him.

At the sound, I open my eyes and clutch at the basket before it falls from my softening grip. When I lift myself from the wall, the dark shadow of the Ranger's cloak is before me. I know not why he must then start and stare at me as he turns to take his leave.

"Bid you good morrow, sir," I say as I nod.

"Nienelen." Halbarad bows, his eyes wondering. Now that he is close and I may look fully upon him, I see he bears a bruise about his neck and a long scrape above his eye. They pull at my gaze and I find I wonder at how he came to bear these small wounds. No doubt, were my father here, he could tell me.

"Ah, Nienelen," the Elder says, gaining the Ranger's attention as well as my own. He lingers in the door behind Halbarad, his hand clutching its frame in want of other prop. "I thought you might come." "Come, child," he says and motions me forward.

"I shall see you on the day appointed?" he asks Halbarad as he lays his light clasp upon my elbow. His eyes, watery with age, peer across my shoulder at the Ranger.

"Yes, of course," says Halbarad, mumbling in his distraction. Only then seeming to come to himself, he turns to face the Elder. "Aye, until then. Bid you good day," he says loudly, bows, and is gone.

Had I looked, perhaps I would have seen the relieved gaze he shared with Elder Maurus. But I did not and, at the time, thought little of his departure other than the curiosity of seeing him yet again.

"Come inside, my child," the Elder says. He leans heavily upon my elbow as he hobbles his way to the table.

"What think you, Nienelen, eh?" His voice is overloud for being just beneath my ear, but there is little I can do about it that would not give him offense. "Such a fine day, is it not, though the breeze is chill to these old bones. They've not left off aching since the winter, knees, hips and fingers, the lot of them. My end is coming soon, though Pelara tells me I have yet too much mischief to stir up in the Angle before my time is through."

He waves a hand to the seat Halbarad had so recently vacated and flashes a bright grin as he lowers himself upon his stool. I smile in return. He takes much delight in his reputation, our Elder.

I set the basket upon the floor when I sit and its contents clatter oddly against each other.

"Ah, well, you did not come to hear of my ills," he says, undisturbed by the noise. "It is a fault of the very old, my child, to believe that youth has an ear for what will come with the years." He presses swollen knuckles onto the table as he eases his body to his chair. "There, now," he says and sighs, having settled himself down. "Will you have some tea, child?" He lifts the lid of the pot and peers inside.

"My thanks to you, father, but no."

"Ah, she is doing well, my child, kind of you to ask," he says and lets the iron lid clatter to the pot. "But, what about tea? Will you not join me, eh?"

"Yes, father," I say, submitting to the inevitable, "if it is not too much trouble."

"Trouble? What trouble be there?" he asks, squinting eagerly at me from across the table.

I shake my head and then say, "Tea! Father!" I nod broadly and raise my voice. "Yes! Thank you!"

"Oh! Ah, I see," he says and blinks as if in disappointment. "No, no, no trouble at all."

He turns about upon his seat and bellows, "Pelara! Company! Tea!"

"And how is your aunt, hmm?" he asks in voice that is not much quieter.

"She is well!"

"Well?" he says and I nod. "Ah, good. A pity she never chose to remarry. A fine woman she is."

His voice rings in the room just as, no doubt, does mine. I sigh, for I cannot see how I shall conduct my business without all the Angle outside his door being privy to our discussion.

"I would have married her after my Therinil died. Did you know that?" he asks but then goes on without a glance my way. "Oh yes! But she would have none of it. A shame, really. Then you and my daughter could fight over who will provide us with the better care, eh?" His light eyes twinkle with mirth.

I am thankfully spared the necessity of answering his question by the appearance of his daughter. Mistress Pelara bustles in, wiping dirt from her hands upon her apron. I think it most likely she has been called from the garden. I smile what I hope is an apology for the disruption in her day when she nods her greeting.

"Good day, Nienelen," she says but turns immediately to the Elder. "Yes, Father," she says and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear so she may see him unhindered. The silver threads in her hair catch the sunlight as she leans in to the old man. A mother of four grown sons and daughters, yet she is as a child to his wintered years.

"Ah! There you are, Daughter!" he says. "Tea for our guest, Nienelen. She comes to beg what charity the Angle may give her, fatherless child that she is now."

Were he not an elder of our people, I would have forgotten promises made to my father and unleashed my displeasure upon him. As it is, my back stiffens, my surprise thickening my tongue so I cannot speak.

"Och, now, Father!" his daughter exclaims and, patting her broad hands about its surface first to check for its heat, picks up the teapot. "You have not heard a single word Nienelen has said, I warrant, as deaf as you are."

"Bah! My ears are as keen as yours, girl!" he says to her back, for she has left and I can hear water pouring in the other room.

"Humph!" comes her voice through the doorway. "Did not, just this morning, I tell you to take the porridge off the hearth? Did I not?"

"Impudence!" he calls after her.

"I said, 'Father, if it please you, would you swing the pot away from the fire when the porridge gets to galloping? Our little ones would like some breakfast.'" I hear a loud thud in the other room. "Those very words I used, as clear as the sunrise over an open field."

"Do not tempt me, girl! You are not yet too old for me to take you across my knee," the old man warns.

"And there it sits, a mess crusted upon the bottom of the pot as hard as –"

"If you said aught of consequence –" the elder goes on, raising his voice and pounding his cane against the floor for her attention.

"— the iron to which it is burnt." Mistress Pelara bustles back in through the door. "Ears of a fox! Ha!" She thumps the pot upon the brazier at her father's feet and stoops to stir the coals in its belly.

"— I might be troubled to listen," he protests over her head.

"You have the ears of worm," she says and gives the coals a final poke.

"Ah, now, Nienelen," she says and, ignoring her father's sour look, rises. "There we are. What did you come for then, my dear?"

I look from one to the other, uncertain who to address. The one who will hear what I say? Or the one who has the authority to speak before the Council?

"My aunt and I will be leaving soon –" I say, my glance straying from one to the other.

"Oh, no, child!" bursts from the Elder, who has been peering closely at my face as I speak. "Valar save us! You are not traveling in the Wild, are you? All alone and with your aunt, besides?"

His daughter clucks her tongue. "Surely she is not going without escort, Father!"

"Where could she be headed that she will find any to travel with her, hmm?"

"Really, Father!"

"Anywhere north and the men of old Angmar will harry them," he insists, his voice rising in a broad quaver. "East and they risk the orcs of the Misty Mountain. Strange men have been seen on the roads to the South. Mark me well, daughter, their intentions are ill. Short are the days for the men of the Dúnedain outside the lands of the House of Elendil! And the people know it, daughter! Why else do they flee here?"

"Never you mind him, Nienelen," she says, glaring at her father.

"Humph," the old man grunts and rocks on his seat as if attempting to find the sweetest spot for his old bones. "Where did you say you were planning to go, child?" he asks, leaning in to me for a moment. It seems he would gather more information to fuel the fire raging between them.

"West, father, near the Blue Mountains!" I say.

"Ah, the Blue Mountains? Why did you not say so before, child?" He raises his voice though his daughter stands within arm's reach of me. "She and her aunt intend to travel west, to Amon Mîth," he says as if he were the bearer of the news. "Ah well, now, that makes more of sense."

Mistress Pelara catches my eye and shakes her head as if only we two could comprehend her father's folly. Steam rises from the pot and she turns to lift it from the brazier.

"Her aunt has children there, you know," her father says as she sets it upon the pad of wool between us.

"Aye, yes, father, I know," she says and rummages loudly through the drawer of a side table.

"And they children there, too, who have their own little ones, I would think, and they too young to have known her," he says, turning to follow her return to the table.

She lifts the lid of the pot to drop a tightly drawn bag therein, her movements quick for the heat of the iron. "Aye, father," she says and slips two small bowls before him.

"Aye, a sorry business, it is," he sighs, and giving me a glance, pushes a bowl before me with a hand that tremors with his age. "A good thing it was for your aunt to come raise you when your mother died, Nienelen, may the Valar receive her and ease her passing, but surely her debt has long been repaid and your aunt shall see her kin again. I only hope she shall survive the journey."

His daughter ignores him, and with a weary shake of her head encourages me to do the same. "You hope to travel with the dwarves that are due to pass through on the East-West road, do you not?"

"Aye, Mistress."

"Need you any aid?"

I shake my head. "We shall leave much behind."

"Aye, and we can see it given where greatest the need, and there be great need," the Elder says, nodding sagely.

His daughter takes up the pot and pours the tea into our bowls in silence. To these words of her father's, she does not give protest. Her face is full of sober thought as she pours.

"But these –" I say, leaning down to grasp the basket at my feet. "He had no sons to pass them on to, and I would know where –" and here my voice falters.

The basket sits in my lap, where it creaks as I breathe. I stare at the tea, unable, a moment, to either move or speak. The steam that rises from our bowls smells of rose hips and chamomile, a tart, pink scent. I hear the soft sound of a tongue clicking at my side and I know it comes from the woman of this house, but I dare not look at her for I know what I shall see. No doubt her eyes cloud in sympathy and she wonders whether or not to lay a consoling hand upon my arm. It is not her own father of whom she thinks, but the father of her sons and daughter.

I clear my throat and, from the depths of the basket pull my father's winter cloak and blanket, knife, belt, tinder box, and other such things as a Ranger might need when traveling upon the Wild.

"His sword, I have at home, and that, too—" I say as I lay them upon the table. There is no need to mention why I would not wish to carry it through the village, they know. A spectacle it would have been.

The Elder's face is solemn. He seems, for once, at a loss for words, and looks to his daughter.

"Ah, Nienelen," she says, her brows knit with concern. "Your eldest may carry his father's gear in time, but would you not save these for a younger son?"

I shake my head. I do not state what is obvious. It seems not likely I shall bear the elder, much less a younger. How many women of the Angle are there who will never leave their family's house for want of a husband?

"Pelara," I hear and find it is the Elder's voice that speaks so gently.

The look he gives her is full of meaning, though I know not what private thing they share. I take the chance to sip my tea and let them decide what they will. The brew is warm and sweeter than I thought.

"Aye," the Mistress sighs.

She runs an appreciative hand over the cloth of my father's cloak and squeezes the folds of the blanket beneath. Her father lifts his bowl with hands made clumsy by the years and sips from it with great care. It seems he, too, finds comfort in the excuse to remain silent.

"It is selfish of me, Nienelen," Mistress Pelara says, catching the tinderbox and knife before they can slide from atop the pile of wool, "but would you mind, terribly? My youngest has sworn himself to our lord's service and his brothers already carry their father's things. He has none of his own."

"Gelir?" I ask and she nods. It is hard to believe. I recall him as a small boy who set crickets down his playmate's dresses one evening when, as a girl, I had the charge of them. I wonder what mischief he will stir among his lord's Rangers. His mother's face softens when she sees me smiling.

"Aye, I know," she says, shaking her head. "He takes most after his mother's father, though it be my eldest who now mans the ovens for our folk." She spares a glance for the grandsire in question, but he is much involved in the tea, slurping loudly, and merely scowls at her above the rim of his bowl. He knows not what she said, but, it seems, recognizes the look she gives him. "But he loves our lord and will serve him with all his heart."

"Aye then, if it will serve him well. I think I would like that, Mistress."

And I think my father would as well, for he had a mischievous bent, himself. I have little doubt he would have secretly encouraged her son's antics just to see what effect it had on his elders.

"_My thanks to you,_ Nienelen," she says, touching her brow and ducking her head.

Her eyes seem covered with mist but for a brief moment, and then she takes up the knife and belt, for they threaten to slide to the floor yet again. "Where to put these," she says and, blinking fiercely, goes to a chest behind her father to put them away.

So, then it is done. I sip my tea and forget that the basket remains in my lap.

"Shall you not keep this, in memory of him?"

Startled, I look up to find the Mistress' gaze upon me and I know my eyes have lingered on the small metal box of tinder. Vines chase across the silver. It is of dwarven make, though I know not how old. My father told me, when young, that it came from across Lake Town from the hoard of the King under the Mountain. I doubt the tale is true. The story was told by a doting father to brighten the eyes of his daughter and send her to sleep accompanied by dreams of far off places and fanciful tales.

I shake my head, setting down the now empty bowl. I do not say what one small thing of my father's I yet keep. I found it in his belt sack when I stripped him of his clothes and washed his body for his burial, and knew it meant for me. Its small weight hangs in a bit of brightly embroidered cloth hanging tucked within the top of my shift and seems enough to me.

She takes up the metal box. "Truly, Nienelen, I would not begrudge it. Indeed, it is too fine for the boy."

The Elder watches, his eyes sharp over the rim of his bowl and steam lighting upon his brow.

At last I nod, unable to speak and the Mistress presses it into my hands where it feels both heavy and cold. She is silent while I slip it into the basket and I know not what to do next.

The Elder sets his bowl down with a sharp clatter, smacking his lips and frowning.

"When is supper?" he demands loudly, breaking the silence.

"Father," Mistress Pelara says, her voice sharp, "in a good while. There is no need to rush our guest off. She's barely finished her tea."

I stand and stammer, "No, mistress, I have overstayed my time."

She clucks her tongue looking from me to her father and then cocks her head at the old man, who peers up at her with his watery eyes.

"Perhaps, Father, you would see fit to give our guest a proper farewell," she says loudly.

"Bid you good day, Nienelen," he croaks, looking my way briefly before his gaze returns to his daughter and he shrugs.

"Very well," she says, throwing up her hands. "My thanks to you, Nienelen," she says and, though the look she gives me is at first uncertain, she grabs me up in a warm embrace, pressing the basket to me until the reeds squeak.

Her eyes are warm when she lets me go, and I think perhaps I have done some good today, for I have give some little ease to the burden of a mother's heart.

"Give my good day to your aunt, would you?" her father calls after me.

"Bid you good day," I say and, touching my fingers to my brow, nod, and leave.

As I go, the Elder strokes the wool of my father's cloak and I know he must think of it warming his own bones, cold for their want of marrow, but his daughter plucks it from under his hand, giving him only the cluck of her tongue in exchange. But then, once the wool is put away, his daughter plucks the cap from her father's head, only to smooth his thin white hair and drop a kiss onto the top of his head before replacing it. He beams up at her and happily returns to sipping his tea.


	4. Chapter 3

_'But I shall die,' said Aragorn. 'For I am a mortal man, and though being what I am and of the race of the West unmingled, I shall have life far longer than other men, yet that is but a little while.'_

ROTK: The Steward and the King

oOo

It is much cold to be working in the garden over water and a tentative fire, but I had little choice. Pale shapes of leaves swirl in the depths of the slick dark mass in the pot as I stir, surfacing briefly as fish that rise in the river. The juice of the woad plant stains my hands, a blue sunk into each line and crevice of my skin up to my elbows. I am grateful for the ragged sheet I have tied about my person, for it now bears streaks and handprints upon it. Though I will scrub, I shall have faint grey fingernails and ghostly hands for days to come. But once this soup of leaves is strained and dried into cakes, it can be used to dye wool a beautiful blue, dark and as rich as the summer sky at twilight, its color hardy against soap, hot water or sun.

The sun glows warmly against the back wall of my father's house. Ever I shall remember it so, even now, these days of spring when the first fingers of flowering vines break the earth and reach for the stones. Soon, I would have brought the bay tree and aloe in their pots into the garden where they could feel the sun. Soon, my father would have sat in the midst of his seedlings and put me to the task of making his plans for the season's planting come to be. His square palms and thick fingers rough with calluses from the weapons he carried when he ranged far from the Angle, he would press them into the dirt and drink of its smell as he laid tender shoots to bed.

The dye simmers thickly and I glance at the back door to the house. Should I leave the brew to the fire? _Ai! _So much still to do and my aunt lies yet in our bed, aching with a chill that freezes her thin bones. Yet, it seems I can make no decision in this tangle of unfinished tasks, turning restlessly from one to the other without bringing any to completion.

"Bid you good morrow, Nienelen," a voice calls. I drop the spoon into the pot, for the voice is deep of timbre.

Catching the glimpse of a tall, dark-headed man, I whirl about and squint into the sun. It seemed, for a brief moment, my father had returned and called me to him. But it is not so, and my betrayed heart beats wildly for no good reason. It is Halbarad, whom, of late, I have seen more days in a row than I can put together in the past ten years. He stands at the corner of the house with his hands resting upon the gate, and there waits with uneasy patience for me to acknowledge him.

I dry my hands and leave the pot untended for the moment, my decision made for me.

"Sir," I say, nodding my head in greeting, my awkwardness matched only by his own as he steps back from the gate for me to open it.

As when he had lifted the bough to ease my passage under the trees, his eyes fill with a meaning at which I can only guess. For a man with whom I have exchanged precious little speech in my life, I marvel he has aught to say to me now. With dread, I can only think he comes with words of consolation. The funeral meats have been eaten, the guests have gone and I have given away my father's things. Dust now collects beneath his empty chair. So, when Halbarad walks through the gate and stands within my father's sleeping garden, looking steadily at his feet, to my shame, I hope only he intends to be brief.

"My thanks to you for coming," say I. "My father often spoke of the esteem in which he held you. You do him honor."

His eyes flash upon me for an instant, and, had I not known otherwise, I would have thought I had caught him by surprise.

Bowing his head, Halbarad says, "As I have held him. I am sorry for the loss you and your aunt suffer."

With that, we stand upon the lawn of the croft, one watching the other. With a sinking heart I realize he has more to say than a brief exchange in the garden will suffice.

"Would you come inside and take refreshment?"

He shifts on his feet and squints at the door as if it were closed upon the lair of some fell beast. "I had hoped to speak to your aunt, were it not an imposition."

"I am afraid she is indisposed, sir, and is likely to remain so until the morrow." Unaccountably, his face tenses. "I can pass on your respects, if you like." But this seems to bring no ease to the man. Indeed, he grimaces, glancing swiftly from the house to me, as if pressed by great need and debating his course.

"Nienelen," says he finally, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His gaze is solemn and something weary and sad passes in his eyes. "I would have come earlier, had I any comfort to offer. I regret I did not. In our travels, I learned to lean upon your father's loyalty and stubborn humor. I know I shall find my days much diminished by his passing."

I nod but cannot meet his gaze nor speak, ashamed only now do I come to see he, too, is bereaved.

"But, in truth," he continues, his head inclined closely to mine, "my intentions in coming here were otherwise. Our days fall short and give me little choice."

He pauses and draws a quick breath, seeming for courage. "Nienelen, I have a thing to ask you of marriage."

With that, I blink at him in surprise and, at first, can think of naught to say. I cannot deny he is a fine figure of a man, the closest kin of the Dúnadan and known for valor in his own right, as eligible as any man in the Angle. And true, he has a reputation for a quiet nature and so would give little sign of his thoughts, but, nonetheless, I am at a loss to explain how, after all this time, he came to fasten upon the idea of taking me to wife.

I am frowning and staring at him. With haste, I assemble my features into a more pleasing form, for I do not wish to give offense. "I thank you for your attentions, Halbarad, but I had no warning of your desire."

He reddens and blinks at me in turn. His face has turned to stone. _Ai!_ This is going badly.

"Perhaps, it would be best –" I say, stumbling upon my words.

"Nienelen," he interrupts. "I beg your pardon. It was not my intent to mislead you," he says stiffly and bows his head in apology. "I do not speak on my own behalf. I come upon the authority granted me by another."

"Oh," is all I can think to say. I stare at him.

"Perhaps, if we could sit."

"Oh," say I, shaken out of my bemusement. "Aye."

I wipe my hands at my apron, forgetting that woad stains all it touches and the color is deep in the grain of my skin. I take up the ladle and stir the contents of the cauldron one last time. It will do. It must do. Dousing the flames allows me to look elsewhere other than at the man who stands stiffly just outside my reach. No doubt he is as grateful for the reprieve as am I.

When I lead him into the house, we stand in the doorway. I am uncertain as to where to sit him down. The fire upon the hearth is banked and the hall is full of baskets and piles of the small items that keep a household warm, fed and occupied. Shutters and rugs hang across the windows, not yet removed from the winter and, but for the light that spills in behind us, it is dark inside.

"We will not disturb your aunt?" Halbarad asks, touching my elbow to gain my attention.

"No, she lies behind closed doors and hears little." Decided, I enter and lift blankets from a low couch that sits near the hearth.

'I am sorry I cannot make you more comfortable." I drop the pile upon a table, but he merely shakes his head and follows my steps into the room.

"I will be comfortable enough," says he, though I doubt the conversation to follow will have much of ease about it.

As he seats himself, I pull the rug from the window behind him and lay it aside. Opening the shutters does much to lend light to the room, but little comfort given the disarray and the lack of a fire. As I lift the turfs from the hearth, the banked coals provide a welcome, if only faint, warmth. My hands are cold from working with water on a chill day, my knuckles stiff and red.

"I am afraid I have little to offer you." I stir the ashes and lay kindling atop the fire. "We have let much of our stores dwindle. But, we have small ale, if that will do."

"It will, if you join me."

He has been watching me, seated on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped between them, kneading his fingers. He is not at ease, but I find his courtesy soothing and it is with a lighter heart I leave him there to find him refreshment.

When I return, from his seat, Halbarad puzzles over the tall loom leaning against the wall. His furrowed brows seek to make sense of the tangle of yarns, lathes, and clay weights that dangle from the warp. His expression is almost one of relief when I return and offer him a cup. He takes it, bowing his head in thanks when I settle upon a bench across from him. The fire has caught, the flames pouring across the dry wood as we drink in silence. I have unwound the sheet from around my middle and settled my hair in the scarf I wear, and I am warm, if not comfortable.

"When had you planned to leave?" Halbarad asks, breaking the quiet.

I shift in my seat before answering. "When the company of dwarves from the Blue Mountains come down the Great East Road." He nods in confirmation. "My aunt and I plan to leave with them."

"Aye," says he, and sighs. "Along with others."

I do not care for the worry that tightens his face and my thoughts hearken back to the Elder's fears. I think of my aunt, with her frail bones and unsteady feet. "Will we be safe, do you think?"

"As safe as any," he says. "Do you still plan to leave the Angle, then?"

"I hardly know." A sudden desire to see my mother's kin whom I have not known rises within me as if I were but newly sundered from them. "I had not expected to receive an offer of betrothal to keep me here." And now I am not so sure I will accept the offer.

"Not betrothal, Nienelen," says he and his sudden gravity silences me. "There will be no troth-plighting. What I have brought is an offer to be wedded."

"Wedded?"

"Wedded." His eyes search my face.

"Wedded?" It seems I cannot put two words of sense together.

"Aye," he says and is about to speak further, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

I can call to mind a handful of Rangers of Halbarad's acquaintance that may require a wife but have not the inclination to woo her, all older and unmarried or bereft of wife. But I cannot think of one who could not ask for my hand himself and could not put aside his urgency to observe the rituals of our people. The intended groom may have had time to come to his decision, but what of the time the bride might need? What manner of man was this?

"Halbarad?" I ask, "Might I be so bold as to request his name?"

"This will be a marriage of duty." He clears his throat, rubbing the lip of the cup with his thumb.

"Aye, that is understood."

"And it is to be offered with certain expectations," he says and pauses, reluctant, it seems, to continue.

But I can only remain silent. I have little idea as to his thoughts and his disinclination to name the groom does not bode well.

"It is required that you be able to perform certain duties."

"So I gather," say I when he pauses for what seems an interminable moment.

"The groom requires that I inquire as to your ability to perform them before he requests your hand."

"Aye, and if you were to name them I might have a better chance at knowing what answer to give him," I say, but instantly regret my impetuous tongue. By now, Halbarad, Ranger of the North, has fallen mute and a faint pink paints his jaw and cheeks. His eyes wander into his cup and seem to have become lost there.

"Ah," I say in dawning comprehension. "I take it they are of a delicate nature."

It is little wonder, then, he had hoped to speak with my elder. He nods and does not lose any of the red that suffuses his face. But it cannot be helped, and, I think, if this discussion is to proceed, it is I who must plunge on.

"Perhaps having to do with my ability to bear children of him," I say and he nods. It is not an uncommon condition placed upon arranged marriages between our folk and does not surprise me.

"Ah."

I settle back into my seat. The awkward solemnity of the man now rubbing his thumb against his cup weighs upon me. It seems wise to make no promises I cannot keep.

"I can only say I have no reason to believe I am not capable of bearing children, but I have no reason to know with certainty that I am."

His eyes flash from the cup to my face and study me intently. It is my turn to color, and I do so most unwillingly. So, the groom had demanded another condition.

"There have been no others to put it to the test," I declare flatly.

"Then the requirements are met," says he and, taking a deep breath, sets his cup aside. He stands and extends his hand for mine. Though unsure, I lay my hand in his. If naught else, I shall soon learn the name of the groom and bring this riddle to an end.

He lets my fingers lie lightly upon his and speaks, his voice grown formal. "Nienelen, daughter of Melendir, I have been charged to request your hand by the Lord of the Dúnedain, Aragorn Arathorn's son. He asks that you bind yourself to him, take upon yourself the duties as is proper of his lady and the mother of his heirs, and accept his safekeeping of your self and the children you bear of him."

I jerk my hand from his as if burned.

"What manner of jest is this?" I demand, fighting hot, sudden tears. I can only think I have been played the fool for his amusement. I had not known him capable of such cruelty.

Halbarad stares at me, stunned, and then grabs for my hand again and sits.

"Nienelen!" he says, pressing my fingers in his to gain my attention. "I make no sport of this!"

Thoughts whirl in my mind but make no sense. I stare at him without word, but my eyes must beg for answers. He releases me and scrubs at his forehead, sighing. When his hand falls to his knee, it reveals not the face of one of our lord's Rangers, but that of his friend and kinsman. He kneads his hands, quiet a moment.

"Our lord requires an heir," he says, his voice so low it is as if he pleads with me.

My thoughts range over the words that have been said between us and I can draw but one conclusion. My heart sinks and I feel cold.

"Then he is as they say?"

Halbarad's face speaks eloquently enough of his concern that he need say naught.

I rise swiftly from my seat, grabbing onto my arms and pace the short distance between my bench and the baskets that impede my way. It is not so much that I am thinking, but that I must take time for what has been said to settle. It is as if I have taken in a large gulp of wine and must clear my head.

"When?"

"If you are willing, in two nights." I suck in a breath in dismay. Urgent, indeed.

Halbarad speaks, watching me anxiously, "Our folk refurbish his family's house even now, so you may make your home there after the wedding."

I know the place of which he speaks. When our lord's lady mother returned to live among us again, she had taken up the house of her husband's family, and abandoned it only when they carried her to the barrows just these two months past. My lord comes there seldom, but now seems to have need of it as he has not before.

"My lord would not insist you abandon your aunt in binding yourself to him. She is welcome to his household, as well."

Ah! My aunt! My aunt! So great her wish to see her children and so great my debt to her I cannot bear to put this choice before her. Ah, but should I bear an heir of this marriage and my lord fail, I shall be alone in the child's rearing. Neither can I bear that thought. I place hands on either side of my face to cool my brow. My thoughts spin in my head as so many leaves in an autumn storm, I grasp one and the wind rips it from my fingers.

He is waiting for my answer. I sit and his hands fall still but he does not speak. No matter my thoughts, for, in this, reason cannot lead me. In my heart, heard clear above the storm of my fears, rings my father's voice.

"Yes," I say. Halbarad looks at me as if he cannot bring himself to trust what he hears.

"What answer shall I take, lady?"

"I am beholden to my lord, what else am I to say, but yes?" I throw up my shaking hands with a wry, soft laugh. When they fall, I rub my palms along my skirts. "If my lord judges it best, I will lay myself in his hands."

"This is for you to say whether you are willing or no," Halbarad urges, seeking my eyes and looking at me kindly, with an earnest pity.

"I will it. I will do as he asks."

He seems to breathe deeply and his shoulders gentle as if a great burden has lifted from him. "Then I shall be pleased to take your answer to our lord," he says and rises.

Halbarad looks upon me from his great height. By the set of his mouth and eyes I know he is pleased. Somewhat of hope seems to warm his gaze.

"I must return to our lord, but I shall see you in the evening of two days hence." He nods almost as if he were requesting permission to leave and, with little thought, I nod in return. At that, he strides to the door.

"Take thought as to your arrangements, Nienelen," he says, "and send to the house of Master Maurus. It is he and his daughter who will see to them."

I have followed and open the door for him. There he takes my hand in farewell, bowing over it formally.

"_My thanks to thee,_" he says, and then goes on with added emphasis, "_my lady._"

It seems my heart freezes for moment, before beating again. It comes to me only now that, this day, I have accepted far more than role of wife and mother.


	5. Chapter 4

_'The counsel of Gandalf was not founded on foreknowledge of safety, for himself or for others,' said Aragorn. 'There are some things that it is better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark.'_

TTT: The Riders of Rohan

oOo

oOo

My head is crowned with the earliest blooms of the brier rose. Pink and white their petals flutter as I spin the stem between my fingers.

_"Stop that,"_ my aunt scolds mildly around the rose she holds pressed between her lips. With her small hands she weaves a stem into the braids that hold my hair from my face. "_Thou wouldst think thou were a child of ten, not a grown woman,_" she says, the warble of her old voice accenting the Elvish words strangely. _"Now leave off or thou shalt ruin them."_

I cannot help but smile. My aunt tutts at me and straightens my shoulders so she can better see where to place the flower she has plucked from her lips.

"You would think you were dressing for the child's parade at Loëndë, not preparing to wed the Lord of the Dúnedain," she says and the sharp point of the flower rubs against my scalp.

"Oh, come, Aunt." She speaks as if it were not just yesterday morn that she was giddy with surprise. After spending a night made restless by my worries, I told her of my betrothal when she rose to heat water for our tea. I do not think she spoke for a full hour, so overcome was she, and then, after that, she could not stop.

"_Ai me!_" she says, dipping her head to peer through the window at the sun as it makes its westward journey. "They will soon be here with the cart and then I must go. Come! Come now!" she says and I press another bloom into her fluttering fingers.

The small thorns catch and tug at my hair. For a long while I am simply content to let my aunt's impatient hands turn my head this way and that and listen to her mutterings. For I know, as her fingers press to my scalp, soon I shall feel her touch no longer. It is not that this realization is slow to come upon me. I knew, I think, before I spoke to my aunt of Halbarad's visit, I would soon be sundered from the last of my kin left me.

"What is it, child?"

My aunt has ceased her fussing and she looks upon my face, her thin, white brow furrowed. Of a sudden, I take up her hand and press it to my cheek. It is so light I barely feel its weight. The smile I offer is small and sad, and her face softens.

"Ah, now, my pet. No regrets."

I shake my head. I am determined, as is she, to have none. We have spoken of this.

She withdraws her hand and taps at my hip, urging me to give her room to sit. I move along the bench so she might ease herself down against aching bones. She sighs as she does so before speaking.

"I had not thought I would live to see you married, my child, but I am more the blessed to see this day," she says and I reclaim her hand.

Her veins are as knotted ropes, blue beneath the thin, spotted skin of her hands, her nails ridged and yellowed with age. But they are lovely to me, for they are the hands of she who has ever been as a mother to me. She has never looked more dear, with her cheeks as apples when she smiles, pink and round, the gentleness of the cloud of white hair that settles about her face, and the small, dark eyes that glitter often with mirth. Oft has her laughter borne me up when all else about us was dark.

"How can I ever repay my debt to you, Aunt?"

"_Ai child,_ I promised your father I would see you grown, and so I have." She pats my hand, "_There are those who need us. Even as we fulfill their need are we sustained by them. _There is no debt."

Her small dark eyes glitter as she regards me. I think of my father and my need for the strength of his arm and willingness to forsake his home the better to protect it. I think of his need for a place of rest and laughter between his wanderings. I think of my aunt and her need to fuss and cajole and my own need for mothering. Thus it is.

Perhaps my aunt knows better than me why this makes me sigh, for she says, _"Never fear, the love that thee goes to will sustain thee." _

Aunt," I say, chiding her lightly, for it seems I have explained without end the terms I accepted when I made myself betrothed. "Not all marriages are made in love."

"Did I say this love was from the Lord of the Dúnedain?" she scolds. She rises, reclaiming her hand to swat at mine.

"No." I frown at her as she hobbles behind the bench, stretching her back, for I cannot see her meaning.

"And listen to you, so bent on the belief that this is a loveless match!"

"How not?" I say, laughing of a sudden. "My groom could pass me by in the square and not even know his own bride should she not be named to him."

Her fingers have returned to my hair, where she gently twists and tucks and pats until she is satisfied.

"Ah, no, child," she says as she works, "not all marriages begin with love. But, many end there, that they do."

"Perhaps," I say, and yet think, "_and perhaps not._" I have no way of knowing what my lord shall make of me. And, I think, it matters little, for I was not chosen out of the desire for love.

Though I give my doubts no voice, my aunt shakes her head, clucking her tongue at me. I am easily read, it seems, at least by those who know me well.

At last my aunt is done, or has at least acceded to the necessity because of the lateness of the hour. Stepping back, she smiles, her face crinkling with pleasure.

"_Ai, me_! Do you not look fine!"

I reach up to gently pat the flowers that ring my head, for I have no other way to know what she sees.

"Ah! _Do not touch!_" she protests and brushes aside my fingers. "Else you shall ruin all my hard work!"

A distant jingling of harness and clopping of hooves interrupts us and we turn to the window at the noise. I was smiling at my aunt's fussing, but at the sound outside, I feel as if I have swallowed a bowl of stones.

"Oh my, dear child!" my aunt says, squinting vainly into the dimming light out of doors. "They are come for me. Quickly, now! Get me my stick and wrap!"

She shoos me off the bench and I see to making her ready.

"Be sure to blow out the candles, there's a dear. Do not sit too long or you will crease your skirts, there's a good girl, but please try not to wear yourself out with pacing," she says, her voice breathless. A bright pink blooms in her cheeks and a fond light glitters in her dark eyes. She turns every which way, confounding my attempts to bundle her from the chill.

"Now, I shall bank the fire, my pet, as I leave," she says as she clutches the shawl to her and I hand her her cane. "I do not want you near those flames in that lovely dress of yours. Valar knows that fine stuff will flash into fire in an instant," she says and wags a warning at me. "And I'll not have any child of mine going to her wedding smelling of wood-smoke and ash."

"Aye, Aunt," I say as I brush leaf and broken buds into a pile on the tall chest.

"Leave those things," she says, waving me off before turning away, "I shall get them in the morning."

"And do not keep our lord waiting," she admonishes. She has made it to the door and pushes me back into the room. "Now, now. You'll not have long and I shall see you when you arrive at the house of the Dúnadan. I do not want you standing out in the wind and for pity's sake, leave those flowers alone!"

Her parting words are said from out the door and she soon taps her way from my sight. When she has purpose, my aunt can move with the spring of a much younger woman's step. I hear her moving about in the hall, putting the fire to rights until, by the sound of rattling of the wheels and hard, quick footsteps, the cart has arrived outside our door. I cannot see them through the window of my room, but their voices are bright and I know my aunt has stepped from the hall and charms her driver with her smiles and light words.

When the cart rumbles from my hearing, I blow out all candles but one, careful to hold aside my long sleeves for fear of catching them in either flame or spattered wax. For a moment, I watch the flickering of the one remaining flame and listen as the wind rises. Leaves rustle before its fitful breath, scattering about the path that runs before my father's home. A glance out upon the path before I close the shutters and I bite at my lip. The way is clear. I see naught but the gathering clouds and I hear naught but the rising wind.

For want of aught else to do, I wander the room, touching upon the wool that covers the bed I share with my aunt. It is but a small world within that circle of light cast by the candle I bear, but one that is all I have known and loved. I shall carry but one thing from my home with me when I leave, all else has been bundled in baskets and carted off to my lord's home, where both groom and house await me. But I would trust this one small thing to none other. Even now, as I sit, I clutch at the bundle that hangs from my neck. Yes, it is there still, its sharp edges softened by the layers of silken velvet, linen and fine broidery work. It is there.

Thus comforted, I wait.

oOo

That night, of all nights, it rained. Oft, since then, have I wondered what portents the weather told. Clouds hung heavy in the sky as I rode to my lord's family home. Dark they scudded against the far horizon and hid the sun's setting. It is said rain upon the day of a wedding brings good luck, a blessing of fertility upon both land and wife. Perhaps, for, in the end after all things, was it not so?

The horse I rode was not mine, nor was the dress found for me to wear. Indeed, I was lifted atop my lord's own mare, her coat a grey the color of unburnished steel, and her mane wound with ribbons. I ride seldom and my lord's mare is many hands tall, but, as he led the horse, Halbarad set a gentle pace and he moved easily. I, on the other hand, clung to the high saddle and struggled with the wind for control of my dress and the mantle that hung from my shoulders.

The velvet garment was beautiful, of a rich, dark gloss I had not heretofore seen. Tiny stars sparkled in clusters at the neckline and hem, both lower than is my wont. The fabric of the sleeves was a silk so fine they floated in the slightest breeze. I wrapped the sleeves about my hands and was grateful for their length, for my fingers and nails still bore the pale marks of woad leaves, lending them an age greater than my years. The mantle, of the same material as the sleeves, drifted shimmering behind me as we moved. The dress was overlong for me. But I dared not alter it, for it had been my lord's lady mother's, brought with her from the house of Master Elrond when she removed herself hence. The lady Gilraen was a woman of fairness of frame as well as face. I was not so tall. But, out of respect for its maker, I knew I had not the skills to take needle and thread to the dress.

Nonetheless, so we proceed, I atop my lord's mount, and his kin striding tall and silent before me, his hands upon the reins and halter of the steed. Glad am I for Halbarad's quiet, for I cannot think what I would say in reply to even the simplest of speech, so greatly do my misgivings weigh upon my tongue. Ah! What terrible pride or perversity forced me to give my consent to this marriage?

The steady clopping of hooves draws our folk from their homes and they stand in their doors to watch as we pass. Many nod in greeting at their lord's lady and salute their lord's man. A young girl, her dark hair bouncing upon her shoulders as she runs from her granddame's side, lifts a handful of flowers plucked from the forest. I clutch at the saddle, for I must lean dangerously low to receive them, though she stands on the tips of her toes.

"Blessings upon you and our lord," she recites in a breathless rush as our hands meet.

I hold the bluebells lightly, fearful of crushing their delicate stems, and stare as she runs back to her family's side. She is not the only to offer me flowers, and soon my hands are full of the delicate white petals of nightcap, the bold yellow of buttercup, and the soft pink of butterbur, as well. With each touch exchanged when they press flowers into my hands, it seems the pit of my stomach drops further, for eyes old and young, man and woman search mine. What sign they seek from me, they do not say, but my heart tells me they wish for hope. So should I wish, were our places reversed.

We collect people in our wake as if we ride the current of some slow moving stream. Soon, the women of the Angle follow us, leading their children by the hand. At first, their look is subdued and their voices soft. But, when we reach the last of the homes, first one and then other voices rise in song. The women begin to clap and their steps match the brisk tempo of the music they sing. Smiles warm their faces.

They weave a tale of two young lovers who meet by chance by the river. They sing of hands that touch, of kisses sought and kisses found. Much more is alluded to but not fully said. It is a song of love offered and love received. I go not to a lover's house, yet it lightens my heart, for it brings a faint blush upon Halbarad's cheeks and, though his manner is forthright in all other things, he cannot seem to meet their eyes. This, more than aught else, makes me smile. It is not often that my lord's Rangers find themselves out of their depths.

When we come within sight of his family's home, my lord steps from his door to stand in the midst of his men clustered upon his croft. My heart thuds to a stop and I know, now, there is no turning back. He is much as I remember him, dark of hair, tall of frame, keen of eye, and grim of countenance. His look is resolute, as he is in all things. I am less well acquainted with the marks that mar his face and the hollows that darken his eyes and cheeks. About him he bears the pains of battle but barely healed, as do his men. His breath is shallow and he stands very still, as if he dare not move. Yet, he holds himself with a quiet authority that even this cannot abuse. Were you to come upon this gathering and not know who he is, still your eye would be drawn to him.

The light laughter of women must be a welcome thing to Rangers' ears, for the eyes of the men about my lord gleam with a warm light as they wait, holding aloft torches that flare in the false twilight of the heavy sky. Their flames sputter and stream upon the fitful wind as they watch our arrival. Halbarad's gaze has sought my lord out and he measures him with nigh the care I take as well. I think then, should he have the strength to stand so tall, perhaps my lord is not so bad as they say. I know not what are Halbarad's thoughts.

My lord's thoughts are the more plain to tell. When I meet his gaze, I refuse the reserve that rises within me. His glance is sharp, appraising me keenly and, as I lean upon Halbarad's shoulder to alight to the ground, it lends steel to my spine. It was my lord who asked for my hand, be he satisfied with what he sees or no. I must lift my chin to meet his gaze, for he is a full head taller than I, and when I do so, somewhat about his look gentles.

I keep my eyes upon my lord, hoping to forget all those assembled here. I do not think I have ever had as many of our folk looking upon me at once, and I fear most to trip upon the overlong skirts I wear. The thought of sprawling upon the ground before my lord in the company of his Rangers on such an occasion both alarms and amuses me, so that when I come to him, I am sure a smile quirks at my lips.

I shall not enter his house until we are wed, so my journey ends when I stand before my groom. The wind stirs his hair, sending tendrils across his face, and lifts my sleeves and mantle to dance about me. With it, the air brings the smell of the softness of night and wet earth. My lord's voice is deep when he says his first words to me. Though he speaks low as if it were just the two of us here, in the hush that has settled upon the gathering I think even those upon its fringes know what he asks.

"Lady," he says, "you know what it is that has been asked of you?"

"Aye, my lord."

"And you are willing?" His eyes search my face.

"I am."

"Then let us proceed." His face loses none of its hardness of expression when he steps back and nods to his kin, nor does his voice betray feeling. I know not how he perceives our union, but, nonetheless, it is soon to be.

We have neither mother nor father between us to join our hands, so it is my aunt and Halbarad who come to stand at our sides. My aunt's dark eyes twinkle with mirth as she leans upon her stick and cocks her head to peer up at the Dúnedain across from her. Pressed against her cane, she clutches ribbons whose ends skip upon the breeze.

_"By the Waters of Nenuial, that lad is tall!"_ she whispers to me in the tongue of the Elves, but her ears of those of the very old and her voice carries to the assembly.

Soft laughter ripples through the crowd. A swift smile lights my lord's face and he shares a glance with his kin, who snorts his amusement. Some of the grimness falls from my lord and it is with an easier look that he stands before me to accept my hand.

At that, the burden of the gathering lifts from my shoulders. My aunt smiles and I know from the thrust of her chin she is deeply satisfied with herself. When I feel the familiar feather-weight bones and lumps of joints grown swollen and painful with age beneath my fingers, I press them briefly in acknowledgement of my debt to her.

My aunt's voice quavers beneath her words, but she draws herself to her greatest height. She speaks as for the women of the North, and does so with the dignity and grace of her age. Mixed with the words of binding, thunder rumbles distantly above our heads.

_"Who is it would take this daughter of the Dúnedain?"_ And so she begins the ritual with the tongue of the Elves and the lifting of my hand.

_"It is I, Aragorn Arathornion,_" my lord says, his voice smooth and sure. _"Before my kin gathered here and in the presence of the One, I bind myself to this daughter of the Dúnedain. May they hear and consecrate my oath. Here and from henceforward, I vow to give her and the children she bears of me my name and my safekeeping." _

_"Who is this would give her hand?"_ asks Halbarad as raises his own.

_"It is I, Nienelen, Melendiriell," _I say, bringing as much force to my voice as I am able to overcome the sound of thunder and rising wind. _"Before my kin gathered here and in the presence of the One, I bind myself to this son of the Dúnedain. May they hear and consecrate my oath. Here and from henceforward, I vow to take upon myself the duties of his lady, to provide for the safekeeping of my lord, his people and his heirs, as my lord commands." _

With that, my aunt places my hand in Halbarad's, saying, _"Then I pass her into thy care, Aragorn Arathornion and to that of thy house. May thy days with her be filled with the blessings of the Valar." _

_"And so we receive, then, the hand of Nienelen Melendiriell, and count ourselves blessed." _

So saying, Halbarad passes my hand to my lord, who takes it in his own. He lifts it before him. His knuckles are much battered, but his touch gentle. I feel the first drop strike my shoulder and find that my lord's sleeve is spotted with rain. As he speaks, my aunt tugs the ribbons from the hand that clutches her cane. The wind catches them and they flicker in the firelight.

"_Thus do I receive the hand of Nienelen Dúnedainiell, and accept her vow,_" my lord says and Halbarad captures the ends of the shimmering bits of cloth and winds them about our clasped hands, _"and count myself blessed." _

About us, rain strikes the leaves and roof with a restless patter. My aunt tucks in the ends of the ribbon gently so that the wind will not pull them asunder. She pats my hand warmly when done.

_"Thus do I forsake the house of my father's for that of Aragorn, son and Lord of the Dúnedain,"_ I say. _"I accept his vow, and count myself blessed." _

My aunt and Halbarad step aside and he winces as a drop falls upon his brow. Light splits the shrouded sky asunder and here and there the people shift and turn their faces to the darkening sky. A wind chill with the touch of rain rushes through the trees and, lifting my mantle, tosses it about my head.

I struggle to contain its flapping with my free hand, but I am trapped in a film of silk and do not see the corner of the cloth that floats dangerously close to the torch until my lord steps before the flames, grabbing the material. He waits until the wind abates, his breath shallow, and face pale and quite still, before drawing the mantle from about my head and letting it drift behind me.

"Come, let us inside," my lord says, drawing my wide-eyed gaze away from the flames. With our hands bound, he leads me through the door and into my new home.


	6. Chapter 5

_Then Éowyn looked in the eyes of Aragorn, and she said: 'Wish me joy, my liege-lord and healer!'_

_And he answered: 'I have wished thee joy ever since first I saw thee. It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss.'_

ROTK: Many Partings

oOo

It is as if the dams of the sky have opened and a great river floods the valley. Rain pours from the clouds, rustling in the thatch above our heads and pounding against the ground beyond the walls. Thunder grumbles and rolls over the tops of the trees and ever so often the wind sends spatters of rain in through the windows. My lord's hall stands tall, from floor to rafters near three men-tall. Long windows open above our heads into the rain and chill night air. The open hearth in the midst of the room burns brightly and the torches are brought indoors. The hall is ablaze with light and sound, and water pours in a shimmering curtain of silver and gold threads of reflected flame beyond the open casements.

Here, my lord and I sit among his guests, our hands bound fast throughout the feast and one bowl and trencher before us. We will eat little if we do not seek help from the other. I have attended a goodly number of wedding feasts and have seen many a couple make a game of the repast. They tease with bites of the bounty of forest and field and sneak kisses between, when they think the company does not perceive. Others are so shy their guests must ply them with wine and pound the boards until they are appeased for a short while with a kiss. Others are more bold and care not who looks upon them, so great is the passion and head full of wine they share.

My lord and I share neither of these. Our cup stands near full and seldom does his glance stray to mine over the meal. He eats lightly, and the time between mouthfuls lengthens. When I offer to help him cut more of his meat, my lord declines with a quick shake of his fingers. It is good my appetite has fled with the discomfort of noise and unease, for I would not ask my lord to wear himself thin just to give me aid.

I sit beside my bridegroom and let the company whirl about me. My shoulders are stiff and my back aches, for I hold myself rigidly in my seat. The groom looks no more easy than the bride. His hand is still beneath mine and he does not speak. Our food grows cold long before the meal is done. Our only blessing is that the guests do not come near enough to demand speech with my lord and none have called for him to show me the fondness expected of a groom for his bride. It is plain to me, who sits so near, that he tires swiftly.

It is with relief, then, the feast seems to be drawing to a close. Bowls are emptied and pushed away, and the guests pluck at the corners of the trenchers of day-old bread, soaked as they are now with the juices of roasted meats and a sauce of garlic and thyme. I think the meal shall soon be done and the dancing take its place. I would not deny our people their one chance of late to invite joy and it seems my lord is of like mind, but the quicker this evening ends, I think, the better.

Soon, I hope, the women will lead me up the stairs and there prepare me to await my groom in the solar where he sleeps. It is enough to know the company shall watch me as I go. It is enough that I go to meet a man who is far beyond my ken, more myth than flesh and blood breathing beside me. I know him not. I am grateful my lord's men have been merciful and spared me greater acquaintance with their chieftain where all can watch. It shall be enough to be pinned beneath my lord's own gaze. The waiting grates upon me. The sooner it is just he and I, the sooner that, too, will be done.

"My lord!" a voice calls and our eyes are drawn to the tables across from the hearth. There stands one of his Rangers, a young lad with a round, pleasant face.

"Aye, Gelir," my lord says and his guests quiet the better to hear him. All about us faces turn to the hearth.

'I have a boon to beg," my lord's man says, and turns to the company and raises his wine, his eyes alight with mischief.

"Ah, Gelir," I hear. His friends laugh and call, "Sit down, there."

Yet he is determined. My lord's man remains steadfast and backs away from playful hands that seek to cuff him or pull him to sitting. Those Rangers elder to his years smile and lean in one tother to whisper and exchange a meaningful glance. It seems they know him well and are not surprised.

"Nay, nay!" he says, laughing and protecting his cup. "Is this not a wedding feast? Forgive me, my lord, I could not tell."

My lord says naught, but he attends. His brow rises and his look is gently amused, and by that his man takes heart.

"Does there not seem to be one thing yet lacking?" He extends a falsely bewildered look to the company and then smiles broadly. "My lord, you are known for stealth, having been tutored in the ways of it by the Elder-born. You must forgive these mortal eyes if they missed it, but I have not seen even one kiss betwixt my lord and his bride."

The men laugh and shake their heads. "You shall make a fool of yourself, yet, Gelir!" I hear.

The man shrugs and looks out among the company. "Have you?"

"Nay, not I!" comes from the far side of the hall and now the guests turn about in their seats, their eyes bright and expectant. I catch a brief glimpse of my aunt. She sits upon her chair surrounded by her friends, her dark eyes bright with laughter as she leans from her seat the better to see, the butt of her cane teetering upon the floor. "Nor I!" comes another call.

At this, the man beams and turns to my groom. "What say you, my lord? Shall you not give us satisfaction?"

With that, Gelir is not the only man standing. There they rise and call out my lord's name. As if in echo the hall takes up the call, and a drumming upon the tables rises from about us. Very quickly it is loud, buffeting against my ears, and the faces of all the company are turned to my lord and me. For all its usual subtlety, Halbarad's look is thunderous, his eyes glinting darkly beneath his brow. I shall not be greatly surprised if my lord's Ranger finds himself assigned the most onerous of duties come the next week and the next following it. He heeds the threat not, but raises a cup to his lord, his smile broad and laughter on his lips.

After some hesitance, my lord's smile is fond as he gazes out upon his man, and by this I know he will comply. My heart beats so at this thought that, when my lord turns to me, I know I must blush brightly so all may see. I hear little over the pounding on the tables. My lord's eyes are upon me, and I am pierced by the sharpness of his gaze. Ah, had I not drunk more wine when I had the chance!

The men pound all the louder and the tempo of their beat quickens. Yet, still, he does not move, and indeed, my lord breathes deeply as if preparing himself to exert great effort to bridge the distance between us. Only then does it come to me what this kiss will demand from my lord in pain.

This should not be! Is not my lord's discomfort sufficient suffering, that he must seek out more to appease them? Before I give it more thought and convince myself otherwise, I launch myself over the rest where our hands are bound, and press my lips to those of my lord's. I come near to knocking his head into the back of his chair for the force with which I fly at him.

I think, at first, a great gasp arises from my lord's guests, but then the hall roars loud with approval so I am near deaf for it. Laughter beams from my lord's men's faces and the women hide their glee behind their hands. They shout and strike their tables and pound the floor. For want of practice, I am sure I lack gentleness and skill, but my lord cannot say the kiss was wanting in its effect.

When I pull away from him, my lord's look is stunned, but soon a slow smile softens his features. He then laughs low and his eyes light with mirth as he wipes at his lips. So great is my shame I cannot look upon him or any of his guests. I all but cower in my chair, wishing for naught more than my hand was free so I might flee the hall.

My lord lifts his cup from the table and silently salutes his men as they cheer him on, calling his name, raising their cups to his and laughing. When he drinks, they do the same and the hall quiets some.

"Lady," I hear softly beside me and I lift my eyes to find my lord offers me the wine.

There is naught to do but take and drink of it under my lord's watching. I hear my name called in a scattering about the hall as I drink and over the rim of the cup I catch a glance of raised cups and smiling faces until my eye lights upon my lord's kin. Somewhat of satisfaction and relief has settled upon Halbarad's features, and he offers me a slight nod before he sips from his cup. I am not so shy of the wine and drain all that is left.

With that, Halbarad rises and signals the end of the meal. It is customary for the groom to lead the bride to the floor where he will partner her, but this is not asked of us. Instead, the men move the tables until my lord and I sit before the hearth and around us rings the empty floor. The table all but disappears from before us and the floor clears so swiftly the whirl of change leaves no room for comment. Surely all is as it should be.

By the time the company dances in a round about us, the wine has risen to my head, where it gives me little comfort. A muddle of music reaches my ears, a mix of viol, pipe and drum and the beat of feet against the floor to set the rhythm. In a little, my head shall clear, but now I blink at the forms of my lord's guests as they slip past and seek mightily to keep my eyes open. The circle ceases its turning and couples break from it to whirl about. They wend their way against each other as so much weft laid down between the warp, but I lose the weaving for the swiftness of their feet. Only then do I cease my attempts to make sense of it. They are merry. Let me be content to watch.

Under the influence of the wine, time passes swiftly and I have nigh forgotten my lord. By the time my mind is my own, a brisk tune moves their feet and the company swirls about us. Clapping of hands ring in time above the Ranger's heads and the dance involves much of pounding heels as the men circle the lady of their choice. It is a joyful dance and the hall is full of bright sound. The women beam and the grimness of the most weathered of our lord's Rangers falls from him.

Even Halbarad deigns to smile at the twinkling eyes of the delicate lass he has chosen. She seems to barely top his belt, but her cheek dimples with her suppressed smile and she stands no doubt as straight as her father's spear, though perhaps not near so tall. Then, there is a clear shout and the tune breaks into a wild whirl and the men grab their partners' hands to swing them laughing about the floor in great circles that threaten to collide one with the other in their recklessness.

When the dance ends, I am laughing with them and I turn to my lord. I wish to share my delight, but he stares straight ahead, his eyes fixed and distant. The dancing brings him no joy. It is then I notice the sweat that has sprung out upon his brow and his labored breath.

I lean to him. "My lord," I whisper beneath the sounds of music, dancing feet and laughter, "what do you wish?"

He blinks as if arising from the depths of dreams and shakes his head so slightly I wonder had I seen it.

Will my lord take no comfort? Is there naught I can do?

But I have not the time to discover it, if there were, for I turn at a light touch upon my shoulder and find the women are waiting.

My aunt has long since left the company and gone to her bed. She came to me before the dancing was done, and pressed her cheek to mine. She said naught, knowing I feared my lord's overhearing what reassurance she might need to give along with her farewell. Another will pluck the flowers from my hair and puzzle out this strange dress' fastenings, but I have the pride in my aunt's eyes to take with me no matter how far we may be parted.

They unwind the ribbon from about our hands, and, in a gentle crowd, lead me to the stairs. He gave me no farewell more than a slight nod, and in my last sight of my lord before the women urge me up the steps, he speaks softly with Halbarad and stretches his fingers as if their binding had been a sore trial.

oOo

Sitting on the edge of a stranger's bed, I await my husband.

"Husband."

I roll the word upon my tongue in the dark, where it tastes oddly. A draft runs along the slats of wood where my bare toes dangle and I shiver. A cold welcome it will be for the groom if the bride were to sit much longer waiting in only the thin covering of her shift. It feels most of an hour since I was dismissed from the company, the men lingering to toast their married chieftain and, on this night, wish him much bliss.

_And an heir, do not forget, an heir. _

The voices of his Rangers have long since faded about the hearth. My hair unbound and skin bare but for a thin layer of finely adorned linen, I am as a field of warm earth beneath the spring sun. But where is the plow-master for the planting of his seed? If he delays much longer, he might find his bride has fallen asleep before joining her in his bed.

A thin pool of light pours into the solar from below and feet scuff faintly at the bottom of the stairs. My heart thuds into my ears, bringing my sour reflections to an abrupt end. His tread is labored and slow as he climbs the stairs, his entrance heralded by a flickering arc of light that throws the beams of the roof into fleeting relief.

At last he is come.

Light spills into the room, and I blink into the glare. A fine picture I must make, squinting into the light as I am, and, uneasy, I shift in my seat. Shadows play heavily upon my lord's face and I cannot read the expression writ there. Without so much as a word or look, he crosses to the foot of the bed. His steps weave across the floor and blood rises to my cheeks at the thought that my lord has need of wine to buttress his resolve to bed his wife.

I swallow and turn away at the thought of wine-sodden breath and clumsy hands, a heavy body that will not rise. But, at the trembling of light upon the wall, I catch my lord's grimace as he lowers the candle to the long chest at the foot of the bed. His breath is not that of a man enfeebled with too much wine, but one drunk with exhaustion and pain, where the cost of each rise and fall of the breast cannot be fully paid. He leans heavily upon the tall bedpost and the hand that seeks to unbind his belt shakes with the palsy of an old man.

"_My lord!"_

Before I can consider what I am about, I am on my feet. When my hand covers his, his arm falls limp and heavy to his side, acquiescing to my touch as if he lacks the strength to resist. His eyes hidden in the curtain of his dark hair, he watches silently as I undo his belt and the ties of the formal tunic he wears. It is thick and velvet, pliable and warm with the heat of his body when I ease it off his shoulders, as if it were the pelt of some gentle living creature. I turn away to fold the cloth and lay it upon the chest and I find I am shaking. Here is a thing I had not expected, to lead our steps through this dance.

The shirt beneath is stiff with raw fibers of silk. It makes the soft rustling sound of falling leaves and the skin its removal reveals is little less smooth and warm than the velvet that had covered him. His breath runs across my cheek from where I am bent to him. I swallow and blush furiously at the warmth and scent that rises from his bare breast as the cloth falls from his wrists and hangs from my hand. I cannot meet his eyes for fear of what he may read there. When he catches my hands and leads me to the bed, it is now I that am weak upon my legs like a newborn lamb.

But, when he cautiously sinks upon the mattress, holding tightly to me to ease his descent, he turns my hands in his to stare at my palms as if looking to them to find aught hidden there. I had taken care not to brush his flesh with them, for they are cold from the wait. Then, laying his face into their cup, he sighs into my fingers. His beard is softer than I thought and I can feel the warmth spreading through my hands where he has captured them against his skin.

For a long moment we are thus, I standing before him, and my lord and bridegroom slumped upon his bed, his hair brushing the edges of our hands. When he raises his face, his eyes are the startlingly blue of a cold, clear winter's day. His voice is deep and rich as he speaks his first private words to me.

"I kept you waiting, lady, but I beg you must wait a while longer."

I cannot tell whether the sinking in my gut is relief or regret. What does a bride say to such a kind refusal to claim the right of the groom?

"We have much time before us, my lord," I finally say.

"That we do."

I have naught to say to that.

In the dark I lie beside my lord's slumbering form, listening to the breath that sighs gently beside me and staring at the wooden canopy above our heads. In my mind I stand within the shadow of the entry into my father's house, watching the passage of the column of Rangers mounted upon their shaggy-coated steeds. I look for my father among their company, but there I see, as if for the first time, their chieftain's face before he passes, and the flash of something vital in his gaze.

It causes me to shiver, and I pull the blankets about my shoulders and turn upon my side so I may curl into a ball without disturbing my lord. But it does little to warm me, for I have seen the weariness of my lord's body sink into the depth of his eyes. And I have seen the linen tightly bound about my lord's middle and, beneath its outer wrapping, it is dark with blood.


	7. Chapter 6

_So! With the left hand thou wouldst use me for a little while as a shield against Mordor, and with the right bring up this Ranger of the North to supplant me._

'_But I say to thee, Gandalf Mithrandir, I will not be thy tool! I am Steward of the House of Anárion. I will not step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart. Even were his claim proved to me, still he comes but of the line of Isildur. I will not bow to such a one, last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship and dignity.'_

ROTK: The Battle of the Pelennor Fields

oOo

The morning awoke in mist. The rains ceased as we slept and from the wet earth a veil of cloud arose to hang over the meadow and wreathe the distant march of the forest in a soft blue haze. Upon my looking out on the world from the window of my lord's solar, the sun hovers above the unseen hills as a ball of muted flame and the drystone walls stand as dark, silent sentinels upon the pasture. There grazed my lord and his kin's steeds. A brief curiosity I was to them upon the sound of opening shutters and they soon forgot me and lowered their heads to the sweet grasses.

With the rising of the sun, I left my lord to his sleep. He barely moved at my awakening, though the strangeness of the light that seeped in through the shutters and the sound of my lord's own breath startled me into sitting bolt upright in his bed. When I marveled at the depth of his sleep and put the back of my hand to his brow, my lord stirred, frowning in his dreams, and his arm came up to brush me aside. There was naught I could do but let him sleep and hope his rest would bring healing. And so it was I left his bed in this, the first morning of our marriage, where I had thought he would require me to linger.

There were none to tutor me in the ways of the household of the Dúnadan, and so I was left to make my own. All about where I looked was now mine. Mine to tend the fields and make them bear fruit. Mine to set the beasts to pasture and comb the forests for what gifts they had to offer. Mine to stock the pantry with its barrels of beans, flours, and cheeses and the buttery with its hanging bundles of herbs, baskets, tools, tubs, and casks of ale. Mine the hearth to make warm the hall. And even here I knew not even the simplest of things. Where did my lord's men stack fuel for the fire?

The tall windows that reach to the rafters I leave alone, for they are shuttered tight and their latches are far beyond the reach of my fingers though I might stretch upon my toes. Though I look about, I cannot find the pole that must surely be used for their unlocking. Yielding to my ignorance, in their stead I open the front door to my lord's home. With this, I startle the youth who paces the toft. He whirls about and stares at me with darkened eyes, his hand flying to the hilt of the long sword hanging from his hip. I cannot say who colored more, my lord's guard who had failed to account for an enemy approaching from the rear as he watched over our sleep, or my lord's wife, who had not thought to find her husband's household expanded by his Rangers.

He bows, his face solemn, and his fingers touch upon his brow. For a long moment, I know not what to do. The youth waits. I wait. Then it occurs to me he will not turn his back until released. I nod and he goes, striding across the dew-dampened grass, his vigilance renewed. It was as simple as that, but I sigh and turn back into the hall. Valar save me, I know so little of what is expected of me that I shall, no doubt, have many such opportunities to make a fool of myself.

About the hall, much is changed from the night before. It seems more than a few of my lord's men slept about the hearth, though they left little evidence of the night they spent there. Indeed, they took all but one of the long tables with them, carting them away to their owners when they awoke. Left behind, my lord's table stands along one wall and his chair sits behind it.

The scuff of my footsteps seems loud in this large space. Benches with little to comfort the body that may lie upon their wood stand stacked to the side. The wall spreads behind my lord's chair bare of any hangings. Not a single pot keeps warm in the coals of the hearth overnight. And my fingers twitch for want of a broom to set the stone floor to rights. It is a place of men, and those that come here stay but seldom. Where to start?

Flowers droop in their holders upon my lord's table, dropping withered petals upon the linen. It is to them I go first. There, on the table still adorned for the wedding feast and his men preparing for sleep about him, I find my lord had thrust the cups aside to make room to unroll maps upon its surface. They are finely drawn and, distracted, I trace the boundaries of Arnor lightly above the parchment; Cardolan, north to Arthedain, about the North Downs and then south into the familiar lands of Rhudaur until I reach the Angle where the rivers Hoarwell and Loudwater meet. These lands, I know well, bound by the Blue Mountains to the west and the Misty Mountains to the east.

Scattered there, I find smooth dark pebbles resting upon the map, lying upon homes of our foes of old and gathering places of fell creatures of the Shadow of the East. Dunland, Mirkwood, Angmar, and the Misty Mountains. A full handful of pebbles lie trapped in the arms of the Mountains of Shadow and Ash and obscures the name of that dark land. Above them all, a pile of black pebbles clusters at the top of the map, waiting, as if my lord had gathered them there in anticipation of later need.

I sigh and turn away. Casting about, a book lying open draws my eyes, its pages filled with a cramped but neat hand. With guilty pleasure, I turn its pages with a delicate touch out of care for their precious parchment. I do not know what I think to find. Some small message of hope, perchance? A key to holding back the fell things that threatened the free peoples of Middle-earth? In its pages I find a journal of the ordering of Rangers of the North for the defense of our people; lists of supplies, the numbers of companies, cities abandoned, accounting of refugees, fallen men, and the movements of our foes. This is what occupied my bridegroom's time before he came to his bed.

Ashamed now of my irritation at being left alone for so long on my wedding night, I turn to the front of the book, abandoning the later pages for what I hope is an accounting of the Watchful Peace. Instead, along the fly-leaf, I find a tree drawn in the brown lines of ink that makes me pause. It is the line of my lord's descent.

Turning the volume, I read the line of names, recognizing some and learning others anew. Toward its upper branches, the line continues along the next page. I turn it silently and run up the line, my finger hovering just above the parchment so as not to stain it with the oils of my skin. Arathorn I, lost untimely. Argonui, killed by wolves. Arador, captured by hill-trolls. Arathorn II, my lord's own father, slain by orcs when his infant son had not yet seen out his third year. Quickly calculating their ages from the dates given, I sink to the edge of my lord's chair.

So young they were, each of them, in the tale of the years of Westernesse; these lords of the Dúnedain, their lives foreshortened by the growing Shadow. Indeed, in these times, it seems by mere chance alone that the man who I left sleeping above stairs yet lived. Tenacious of spirit, even now he clung to life despite the extremity of his hurts, and Valar know, should he live to regain his full strength it shall not be the last wound he takes in our defense. A wave of pity clouds my eyes. I stare at the blank space below my lord's name for a long moment, lost in thought.

In my view from my lord's chair, the hall is cold and spare for all its lofty rafters and tall windows, so little of cheer and naught of pleasure to be found in its walls. Not even an emblem of the Dúnedain of the North to mark my lord's place. The bare wall behind his seat seems a gross insult, a slap in the face.

Rising, I return the book to the page where my lord had it and leave it there. By dint of much lifting of lids and opening of doors at least I now know where to find the linens for my lord's table, a small library of books and scrolls carefully stacked in a tall chest, quills, ink and parchment, thread, needle and worn shears. The kindling I find in a covered bin next to the buttery door. Somewhere out of doors, there must be a well or barrel to catch rainwater and I am sure to find buckets and a broom in the buttery.

I would have my lord's house be truly a home, where he and his house shall find rest of body and mind, but it will be the work of many days. I gather the cups from the table and sweep up the dying flowers with my hands. But, first, before my lord's hall can be made welcoming, it must at least be made presentable. It is time to begin.

oOo

The buttery is shuttered and dark, and unfamiliar. I push the basket of violet leaves onto the shelf blindly and pat about to find a small bucket or some such. In my wanderings about the grounds, I had come upon a grove of sweet birch and wish to cull the smooth-barked tips of their branches to brew a tea to tempt my lord. I think he should awaken soon.

I hear a man's voice in the hall coming muffled through the door. Halting my search, I listen.

"Rohan has ever been an ally of the Men of the West," he says, but his voice is weary and his words have the ring of a much-aired argument.

"Aye, of Gondor, 'tis true," comes the response in a voice I know not. "We will have much need of aid in the not distant future. But when have the Rohirrim ever ridden to our call?"

With haste, I pull at my ties, and yank the apron over my head and toss it in a ball to the shelf. Ah! My lord is awake and has company! It is but my first day of marriage and already I am greatly remiss in my duties as woman of the house.

Taking a deep breath, I unwind the cloth from my head, smoothing back the wild strands before I replace the pins that secure the linen to my hair. Their voices come through the door as they argue.

"It is said that they trade their horses to the Enemy."

"I do not believe it!"

When I open the door, it is with dismay I find so many men gathered about. The table has been cleared of its decorations to make room for them. They built up the fire in the midst of the hall and it crackles vigorously, dispelling any chill from the misty spring morn lingering indoors. The pot I hung there has been swung away, and the thin broth of beans and salted pork it held keeping warm over the coals now gone. Beyond the hearth, my lord sits in the midst of his men, his gaze turned inward and his face grave, rolling a black pebble between his fingertips from where his arm rests upon the table.

It is the first I have seen him in the light of day and I am struck by the darkness of the skin below his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. Halbarad sits on the bench by his kin's chair, so near his elbow he brushes against him when he moves. Gathered about them are more than a dozen Rangers in heated argument. Within their weather-beaten faces are set the grey eyes of their forefathers of Westernesse.

As I approach, I see the map spread between them. From a glance, I see stones the color of cream dotting Eriador at the Angle and various points in the north. But it is in Rohan and Gondor where they are clustered most greatly, opposing the handfuls of dark stone in Mordor. And it is here the men debate, pointing at the map, their voices rising in competition with one another.

"If Rohan were to fall - " begins one.

"When Rohan falls, more like," interrupts another.

"Théoden is ill and frail and the governance of his House is divided among its Marshals."

"Aye, and a house divided it is!"

"It is said that Théodred is a strong leader of men."

"Ah! He is young and besides, his is the marshall of his own éored alone. Rohan has no King who can lead the Mark to war."

"What does it matter? The Enemy must go through Gondor to attack the Rohirrim, after all."

"Aye, Gondor remains strong, but if orcs are massing below the Misty Mountains, what numbers are there teeming behind the walls of the Ephel Duath?"

My lord rouses himself and overrides the confusion. He clenches the stone tightly in his fist. "Our more immediate threat, gentlemen, comes from the north and the east. Mordor may indeed be amassing its armies, but it will signify little to us if we are overrun long before the first orc sets foot on the plains about the White City. Do we have the might to stem the tide of Mordor? No? Then let us concern ourselves with what aught be done here and now."

I freeze at the sternness of his voice. Perhaps I should not be here, a woman interrupting the councils of men.

I must have made some small noise in the silence that resulted from my lord's reprimand, for his eyes are now raised to mine. They are cold and grey, full of the severity of a man in the midst of sustaining hope solely by an act of will. The crack and hiss of burning sap comes from the fire behind me and I can feel its heat on the back of my skirts. I drop my gaze only to step back and stare anew, startled by the shuffling of feet, scraping of wood upon the floor, and the rising of his men from their seats. Their eyes, too, are upon me, with a solemn attention that surprises me.

I drop a short obeisance to my lord. He rests his head against the back of his seat.

"Lady," he acknowledges. "Gentlemen," he says to the men, looking about him as if newly aware that they had risen, "be seated," and they comply without comment, leaving me to stand alone in the silence.

Already, cups, bowls, a pitcher and wine skins are scattered about the table among heels of bread and a great wheel of cheese. But, nonetheless, having come so far, I must proceed.

"My lord," say I, "have your needs and those of your guests been attended to?"

"Our needs are simple enough, lady," he says, gesturing an upturned hand at the table, the pebble a dark shadow between his forefinger and thumb.

When I blush and bow my head in preparation to flee their company, his gaze softens.

"Lady!" he calls as I turn to go, his eye having alighted upon the pitcher. "Would you draw more ale, if it please you?" He adds, pinning his men with a rueful glare and tossing the stone to its mates where it clinks against them, "It seems we run dry and I would not have our guests' debate foreshortened for the want of something to wet their tongues."

The resulting chuckles do much to allay the tension in the room. Halbarad does not smile with them, but reaches across his tablemate to lift the pitcher. Catching my eye, his nod invites me over to take it from him. My lord's men return to their conversation, but in smaller groups and with much lowered tones.

Once at the table, Halbarad hands me the pitcher. I am surprised to find it nearly half full with a sweet-smelling ale. Very kind of my lord it was, I think, to sanction my interruption with his request. Now I am here, and welcomed, his men meet my eye with a nod of greeting. I find myself wondering how many of these Rangers have wives or mothers at home to care for them between their wanderings. I return their acknowledgement with as warm of a smile as I can muster and begin to fill their cups as they are offered.

I lean over the table at my lord's side and his voice sounds close to my ear as I pour.

"And you, lady, have your needs been attended to?"

"My needs are simple enough, my lord," I say and return the cup to its owner.

When I look to my lord, he is watching me, seeming in attempt to divine why he hears his own words returned to him. I do not like his color, or the sweat that lies in a film upon his upper lip, hidden from all but close examination by the growth of beard.

"Your people have been most generous in refitting the house, my lord." I nod to a Ranger with silvered hair who smiles at me when I take his cup and fill it for him. "I believe your lady mother was happy here, for a time, here where her memories were," I venture.

"Yes," he says and his gaze falls from me. "Perhaps she was, for a time."

Slowly, he eases his shoulders back onto his chair, wincing briefly at the strain. Without raising my head, I glance at the men, but they talk amongst themselves, pouring more wine and drinking it from their cups. When I return my attention to my lord, he has raised his cup to his lips, his movements slow. He manages a sip, but in his attempt to set the tumbler to the table, the light trembles in a bright coin upon the liquid surface and he falters.

Of its own accord, my hand darts toward his, lifting the cup from his grasp. His eyes burn into mine, but his fingers are cold, and, when he releases the weight of the cup, his hand shakes. Dropping his gaze, I fill his cup from the pitcher as if this had been my intent all along.

_Enough!_

It is clear from the defiant fire in my lord's eyes that he will not take the rest he needs of his own accord or from any prompting of mine. Let him have his pride. But that does not imply that all means of recourse are beyond my grasp.

I set his cup within his reach and turn to the man who shadows his left hand.

"Sir," I say and Halbarad is immediately attentive. "Might I beg your assistance?"

"In what way may I be useful, my lady?"

"Would you be so kind as to help me in clearing the table?"

He nods slowly and rises. I have emptied the pitcher and, bowing to my lord, take my leave through the buttery door. But I do not go beyond it into the pantry. Wood clatters in the hall as Halbarad gathers the bowls no longer in use. He wedges the door open with his toe and ducks his head to step within. Halbarad blinks and frowns, squinting at me in surprise when he finds me waiting for him.

I relieve him of the stack of bowls. "My lord tires," I say, my eyes upon the floor and my voice soft.

Halbarad stares at me a brief moment before turning abruptly on his heel. In the dark, his footsteps make short work of striding through the buttery and I hear his pull on the door into the hall before its swift opening spills light into the small space.

"Come!" he commands in a voice that brooks no opposition. In my mind I can see the tall man looming over the seated figures of my lord's Rangers as he circles the table, picking up cloaks and packs and tossing them at their owners. "Enough, I say. You have had your feast. You have had your dancing. And you have had your say before your chieftain. Enough. We have stolen much of the bride's day with our wearisome debates. We shall meet again in the morning to assign duties. Let us not be selfish, eh? Go enjoy your families and let her have her groom to herself for the rest of it."

There is laughter and light-hearted comments in response, but also the scraping of benches.

I fuss with the tableware as they leave, lifting lids and shifting baskets until I have found the waste bucket. Their voices are warm in their farewells. I cannot tell their words as I scrape the contents of bowls to cover the sounds of leave-taking. When I can hear their murmur no longer, I wipe my hands and feel my way through the shadows of the buttery.

My lord remains seated at his table, solemnly considering the map stretched before him. He is alone.

In the silence, my footsteps and the soft crack of the door banging against its frame sound loud. When it becomes obvious I have returned without having drawn ale for his guests, my lord's brow rises.

"It seems you have won yourself a powerful ally in my kin, lady," he says as I approach.

I pull the bit of cloth tight across the open page and close the book gently upon it. I know my face betrays little expression, for I am not sure how I am to feel, so torn am I between fear for my lord's welfare, and uncertainty as to how my lord shall take my interference.

"I expect he knows well your needs and keeps them close to his heart, my lord," I say, brushing a hand along the table to gather up the loose pebbles. They clink against each other as I drop them into a leather pouch. Pulling on the cord, I lay them atop the closed book.

"What say you to bed, my lord?"

He sighs in what seems to be resignation and then breaks into a small wry laugh. "That I am not sure I can manage the stairs."

I bite at my lip, considering. Indeed, perhaps I encouraged Halbarad to leave a little too soon. I am not frail, but I cannot lift a full-grown man up a flight of stairs.

"Lady," my lord says, interrupting my thoughts, and nodding toward the hearth in the middle of the hall, "if you can help me move to that bench, that will suffice."

It can be naught but a hard bed, I think. Though, I suppose my lord has slept upon worse.

"Come, if you give me your hand to lead me there, I will consider your duty done," he says to my skeptical examination of the wooden bench and extends his hand for mine.

It is an awkward affair, to lift the weight of a grown man when every stretch of muscle brings pain, but we manage. His steps are shallow as we cross the room. He clings tightly to my shoulders to lower himself to the bench. By the time he is stretched along its surface, his brows are drawn, he is pale and sweating, and I am angry.

Whose bidding was it that prompted my lord to rise far too early from his sickbed to attend upon his wedding? Had they pushed him to bed a woman when he could barely rise from his table, hoping he would father an heir in the night against the fear he may die before the morning? And then spend his next days in tedious council making a show of strength when he happens to survive?

My shame gentles my hands when I kneel and lift his ankles to ease off his boots. I lay them beneath the bench and prepare to rise, but my lord grasps my hand. I sit against my heels, my skirt pooling about my feet, until we are eye to eye.

"Have you found all to your liking, lady?"

"Aye, my lord. The house holds much promise."

At that, my lord smiles. "And no doubt you will keep me busy with many plans for its improvement."

"Nay, my lord – " I begin in alarm but he forestalls my apology with a quick pressing of my fingers.

"Order it as you see fit, lady. I will see it done." At the doubt in my eyes, he continues, "If not by myself, then by another."

"My thanks to you, my lord."

His hands loosen in dismissal but I have a question I would ask before I go.

"My lord," say I, mindful of his Rangers' words. "Is there any hope, do you think?"

It does not take much thought to know my meaning, but still he delays, his gaze distant as he frames his response.

"Surely the Enemy is not strong on all points, my lord. Is there no weakness, no arrogance of his we can exploit?" I press for an answer and he is suddenly alert and sharply in the present, searching my face with his keen eyes.

"Aye, lady, but it is not within our reach. No matter, there is always hope, though it may not come to fruit in our life, and to that we must cling," he says and withdraws his hands from mine.

The lines of his face have become drawn in grim determination, but I can see a profound grief shadowing the depths of his eyes, a wound as fresh as that he bears upon his flesh. It is not just the women of the Dúnedain who must suffer through their losses.

I nod, acquiescing to his implicit command to press him no further. I rise and make for the parlor, where, once there, I rip coverings off baskets and upend their contents until I find what I seek.

It must have taken longer than I thought, for, when I return, my lord is already drowsing, his hand hanging limply over the edge of the bench, and I must walk softly to not disturb his sleep.

Clutching the blanket and small pillow to my chest, I sink to the floor beside him and study his face. He goes unshaven and his jaw looks as if it would feel rough, though I know better. The skin about his eyes is wind-burnt and creases show white against it where he has squinted into the harsh sunlit world. But, his eyelashes now rest softly upon his cheeks and his breast rises and falls with a gentle regularity.

There is always hope, he said. Perhaps. But his maps with their ranks of dark and light markers put a lie to his words. One man pitted against such merciless odds. If he should fail, what then? Will we fall into an everlasting darkness? Or will the heirs of his body sustain men against a time when the free peoples of Middle-earth rise again in some distant age?

But then, what hope is there for this man, this son of Arathorn, our Lord of the Dúnedain, my lord?

His eyelids flutter when I lay the blanket over his limbs and lift his arm to rest against their folds atop his chest, but he rouses little. Thus encouraged, I cradle the back of his head and swiftly slip the pillow beneath it. He sighs and shifts, but, by then, I have turned away and poke at the wood in the fire, settling the logs so that I can add more fuel without causing them to fall and send sparks into the room. Entranced by the glowing coals and the quiet of the hall, I had nearly forgotten the man behind me when I feel the brush of fingertips along my cheek, pulling gently at the lock of hair that had slipped out from beneath my scarf in my search through the parlor.

I do not see myself reflected in eyes that are clouded with dreams. His hand drops back to his chest and his eyes close before the gesture is half complete.

_"Tinúviel,_" my lords breaths and then, exhaling softly, falls still.

oOo

The square is in a tumult of noise and movement, though the sun is barely risen and shadows lie heavy upon the doorways and beneath the low-hanging eaves.

"Watch out there now, mistress!" I hear at my elbow. I clutch the bundle to my breast and, wincing away from the sound, take a hurried step back to avoid being trampled by short, solid forms carrying crates and rudely-woven bags. The faint smell of onions and garlic follows them.

Its side bulging with its packs, a pony with a sleepy stare half-hidden beneath its forelock fairly stumbles behind a burly form. The dwarf leading it across my path nods and grumbles a greeting I cannot understand. I ran the path from my lord's house to the square and now my breast heaves with the effort. At a glance about the square sure it is I see the folk of the Dúnedain gathered there. Husband and wife, mother and father, daughter and son they stand upon restless feet with their possessions about them. They are soon to leave.

A smile and a nod and a whispering behind a hand and I know I am noted. Ah! What matter the eyes that pry in surprise upon my appearance in the Angle when none had seen me these few days past? For though I search among the forms of Men that mingle with those of the dwarves and their ponies, I find none that stoop or lean upon the canes of our old. None bear my aunt's white hair. Where could she be? Surely she has not been forgotten.

Ah! 'Tis I who should have carried her pack, who should have roused her to begin this, her last day in the Angle, and walked with her to the square, guiding her slow feet in the dim light before the dawn. It is I who should have helped her into her dress, tying those laces too fine for her aching fingers, brushing out her thinning hair and winding its braid about her head. But it was not and my duties demand I leave this last task for our friends and neighbors. For, if I had not, who then would have begun my lord's day with the warming of his hall and the breaking of his fast?

The morning is chill and but for the tips of their noses and the long flow of the beards that peek from out their hoods, I can mark little of the dwarves who load their carts with fresh foodstuffs from the Angle to mark one from the other. As I approach the last cart of the line, they come to the last of the crates and bags piled behind its open back, lifting them swiftly to a fellow with a green hood and long, reddish beard standing in its bed.

"Hiyah, there!" says a dwarf below, catching the red-beard's eye, and, for lack of other baggage, he lifts a lad to the cart, who will soon be followed by his much younger sister.

"Have a seat right there, young master," says the red-bearded dwarf, patting a squat barrel, and the boy sits down and takes his sister in his lap.

"Keep an eye on Hana, will you?" his father says, clutching the wattle side to peer at his son and the boy nods vigorously above his sister's head, his eyes wide with the seriousness of his duty.

The dwarf ruffles the lad's hair. "They will be here walking beside you, laddie, never fear. We will leave none behind."

"Master Dwalin!" a voice booms. It is that of our butcher, he strides to the cart with his uneven gait.

The red-bearded dwarf leaves the children with a pat upon the girl's head and drops to the ground with a heavy thud. The butcher's nose is full of color for the chill and he sniffs and wipes at it before he speaks.

"When shall we look for your return? Just after midsummer as always?"

"Aye, and I'll have your salt then," Master Dwalin says and the butcher nods and glances about him, distracted I think by the commotion, "a portion for the provisions you arranged the way there, and the rest for those that will feed us on the way back."

Though I hear their voices at my shoulder, I heed them not, for there she is. My aunt sits upon the benches about the Angle's well, her hood drawn close about her so I see naught but the twinkling of her dark eyes in the gathering light. There beside her, with his hands balanced finely atop his teetering cane, sits Master Maurus. I should have known. Nay, he would not let the chance pass him by.

"Ah!" he says, pursing his lips, and his words slow my feet. ""Tis your due to collect the payment earned and see to your own, my dear. She will have concerns of her own, true enough. You are wise. You are wise." He nods his head. "Perhaps one day we shall all follow you to the western hills yet, may the Valar preserve us. Though we be caught between the Shadow and the Sundering Seas, it shall purchase us some little time. And that is all we have let, is it not, you and I."

"Speak for yourself, Maurus," my aunt says and bends down to fuss with her pack beneath the bench. "Shall our Enemy sweep down upon us, with our lord and the Master of Rivendell, His days shall be the shorter lived. I intend to outlast even Him." She rises, placing her folded hands in her lap. She looks about the square and I know she searches for me.

"Of course, my dear," the Elder says, his voice as smooth as his aged throat can make it. "Though it is a pity you take your sweet humor so far from us poor folk of the Angle."

"_Ai! There you are, child!"_ my aunt exclaims, and places her hands upon her knees and pushes herself slowly to standing.

I go to her, my eyes filled with the sight of the sudden joy that lights her face. I think, at that moment, I shall burst into tears, so relieved am I to find her here. But she returns my embrace, her arms circling my shoulder as light as wings of a small bird and I am comforted. For moment, it seem just the two of us are gathered here.

"And what have you here?" my aunt chirps, sniffing delicately when we part. "Hmm, my pet?" She smiles, her cheeks sweetly pink and crinkling with her fond mirth.

"To sweeten your journey, my aunt." I hand her the bundle of warm linen I have clutched to my breast.

She lifts it to her nose and her dark eyes dance above the cloth. Into the pastries' baking I put honey, a paste of finely-ground walnuts, and priceless spices I found in my lord's pantry. Their heat seeps through the linen in which I have folded them, and I know her hands are warmed by their baking. I left their rising for late in the night and took them to the ovens before returning to my lord's bed, and only now wound the cloth about them on my way to the square.

She presses the bundle to her breast and the touch that lights upon my cheek is fond. "_Ai, child, I would tell thee thou should have done no such thing, were it not I loved them so._"

"I am surprised our lord let you from his sight so soon, my lady," I hear in a loud, flat voice, and my aunt releases me. We turn to find the Elder peering up at us from his bench. He clears his throat and looks upon my aunt expectantly.

"Ah, yes, my child, Elder Maurus was so kind as to accompany me," she says in a breathless rush and her hand comes to rest upon my arm.

"My thanks to you, Master Maurus," I say and bow, touching my fingers to my brow. For, indeed I am indebted to him. I raise my voice so he might hear me well. "It lightens my heart to know she need not have waited alone."

"So you have come to see your aunt off?" he asks squinting up at me against the rising sun, then grunts when I nod. "I had not thought we would see you for some time, my lady. Ah, well, 'twas kind of our lord to let you come, then."

I know not what to say, for truly, my lord does not know I am truant from his house. He sleeps and I would not wake him from the healing his slumber might give.

"'Twas good of you to come, Maurus." The gaze my aunt lays upon him is sharp and I think either she must know of my predicament for the silence that greets the Elder's thoughts or her temper is much tried by his attentions this morning.

At this, he sighs and rises, leaning heavily upon his cane. "Ah, well, my dear. 'Tis the time to be going, after all. If I fail to leave now, I will have naught for my morning tea, for Pelara is sure to set it all away should I be late and I have a long day before me."

"Your daughter runs her house most efficiently, you raised her well and are sure to want for little," my aunt says.

"Aye, aye, aye," he says, waving the thought away with his free hand. "Stay close to the carts, my dear, and take heed to what I said. Convince Master Dwalin to pass Bree by, if you can bend a dwarf whose will is oft unyielding as the iron his folk work. Such an unlovely place and I hear the strangest of men gather there. And if you must be there, go not out among its folk." He leans in upon his cane and my aunt suffers him to brush a dry kiss upon her cheek. "Well, my dear," he says, shuffling apart. "I shall not prolong our parting, though it pains me so. May your journey be swift and free of cares, should the Valar think to be so kind for once."

"_Fare ye well, Maurus_," says my aunt, and, to his delight, though her words be brief, presses her lips to his cheek.

"Lady," he says and, giving a sharp nod in farewell when she is done, begins his shuffling journey across the square. He pats at the cap upon his head and nods to our folk as they make way for him. No matter the curtness of his farewell, I cannot fail to smile at the twinkling about his eyes and the jaunty set of his shoulders as he goes.

My aunt shakes her head in a swift dismissal of the man. "Come now, my pet," she says and curls her hand about my arm where I can be her support. "'Tis time for my own going, is it not?"

Taking up her pack and stick from where they sit below the well's bench, we retrace my steps and, though I lend no speed to my steps, it is too soon we reach the cart upon which she will travel.

"Ah, there, mistresses," Master Dwalin, says to us when we come near, his business with the butcher now well done. I find keen eyes peer at us from beneath his blue hood and a shock of white hair sits just below the dwarf's lip, its silver threads weaving their thin paths into his red beard until they have lost their way. "I have been expecting you," he says and extends his hand. "You shall be the last, and then we shall be on our way."

I set down my aunt's pack and fumble at my belt as he takes up the burden and gently tosses it upon an open space in the cart. In my haste, I yank at the strings that tie my purse, for I see now the dwarves climb to their carts and take up the reins. The jingle of pennies must have betrayed the purpose of my efforts, for, when he turns back to my aunt and I, the dwarf's hand rises and he shakes his head, his face growing stern.

"Nay, mistress, you put that away now. We will see you safe and I will not take a penny more for it."

My aunt's hand squeezes upon my arm and I can only look from her to Master Dwalin. Confusion is writ upon more than my face, for it is clear my aunt knows not of what he speaks, either.

"How is that, sir?" I ask, the strings to my purse dangling heavily from my fingers.

"Now, girl, do not take offense and I shall return the favor. But you would do well to question what ill things are said of the dwarves by those who know them not. I have had your fee and there is naught you can purchase with your pennies above that."

"But I have not paid at all, sir!"

My aunt's face softens and I think she smiles, though I cannot think why.

"Ah! So that is the way of it," the dwarf exclaims, his face lightening. "Aye, well, whether you knew of it or not, another of your house has been here before you. The fee has already been paid in full and you need not offer more."

"Oh," I say and slowly let the purse drop from my grip, wondering if it was my lord or Halbarad's doing.

"Come now, then," Master Dwalin says and my aunt releases my arm so as to take his offered hand. "That is settled, now let us get you settled and we shall be on our way."

I see now he has prepared a seat upon a long chest upon which he has placed the folds of a thick blanket to ease my aunt's bones. There she sits and I hand her staff up to her. Her dark eyes shine and I know her thoughts are of her kin and the lands which she has never seen. At the fondness of her gaze upon me, my heart beats heavily, as if a weight gathers upon my breast.

"Here, now, mistress, put your foot there," Master Dwalin says, nodding to the open bed, his hand already clasping my elbow to lift me into the cart. I am weight to his grip and he looks upon me with concern and surprise when I resist.

"I am not to go, sir," I say. I have held in my tears until I fear I may burst from them. I think my face must show it, for the dwarf's grip loosens and his rough voice gentles.

"There now, lass, do not worry yourself. I will look after her as if she were my own mother, then. The Chieftain of the Dúnedain has long been a good friend of the dwarves of the Blue Mountains. And when he request it, we could do no less than to see his kin there safe and in what little comfort we can provide."

At first it is all I can do to blink at him stupidly. But then, knowing the esteem in which the dwarves hold the women of their race, I bow and touch my brow.

When he has lifted the gate upon the cart and goes about securing it, my aunt leans over its edge. She peers about and, seeing herself safely beyond the dwarf's hearing, catches my eye and whispers, "_He is good to thee, then, my child?_"

"_Aye, my aunt, he is,_" I say, and would have said naught else even had I cause to resent my lord's treatment of me. I will not speak of my awakening each morning, when I lie as still as I may just to listen for my lord's breath and know I lay not beside a man gone cold and still in the night while I slept.

"Ah, I knew it." Her smile is both proud and fond as her fingers stroke my cheek and pull at the tendrils of hair loosened from my headscarf. "I would not leave you without him and his to watch over you, my pet."

My hand comes up to clasp hers where she leans upon the wattle gate. Frail bones and soft, dry skin lie warm under my hand, I fear to press them too hard. I think my aunt must read the sorrow in my face for now her smiles grows sad.

A deep voice calls out in a tongue I know not and the jingling of harness and the wheels of the foremost cart set to creaking.

"You will send word?" I ask and my aunt nods, patting at my hand. "I would know you reached our kin safely."

"Of course, my chick, I would not forget you. And I shall send you word of all your kin, as well. I would they come to know you.'

With a slap of the reins, the cart carrying my aunt jerks into motion, and Master Dwalin hefts himself aloft upon his pony and sets the animal walking beside it.

The cart rolls slowly and I follow. I know I cannot walk all the way to the Mountains, but still I hold tightly to the back of the cart.

"And you have the blanket I left out? The blue one?" I ask, for it is the softest and thickest I could find. The nights upon the Wild shall grow cool and my aunt's bones suffer for it.

"Aye, that I do, child."

"Oh, aunt! The salve!" My feet quicken. "I forgot the salve for your joints!" I fight the rising of my voice and my aunt squeezes my hand.

"No, child, you did not. I have it here. Never fear, you packed it for me." A pucker grows between her thin brows.

I can think of naught else to say, but still I cling to the frail hand lying upon the frame. When I will not let go, my aunt leans upon the rail as if she wishes to speak one last word. Would that my feet had wings on which to fly, but they do not, and I struggle to keep pace with the cart.

"Nienelen," she begins, her voice softly chiding.

We have traveled past the confines of the square and the fields open out about us. The ponies trot along, pulling cart upon the rutted path. The way is uneven and the wheel must have come upon a stone, for the cart lurches and my hand is torn free.

Swiftly then she is gone beyond reach and I stand upon the path and watch her go.

The last I see of her, my aunt raises her hand and, from where I stand watching her dwindle, I find my own has lifted of itself as if in an imperfect mirror of her farewell. Then the line of carts and ponies rounds a curve in the land, and she is gone.

Only then do I stir, for I must go to see what need my lord may have of me.


End file.
